


The Night That Ends At Last

by MaxMagician



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopian, Alternate Universe - Future, Cynic R - now we see why he's so, Faith in Humanity, M/M, Martial Law - Freeform, Military, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Revolution, Slow Burn, Young Rebels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6302053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxMagician/pseuds/MaxMagician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January 2100</p><p>Grantaire and his group of young rebels protest against France's tyrannical president. But the leader, Grantaire's lover, is arrested. The protests go on, though, forcing the government to release him.</p><p>And then they shoot him dead in front of everyone, in front of Grantaire.</p><p>Two years after, a new group of revolutionaries who call themselves Les Amis start to give people hope. Grantaire, too cynical, too bitter, and too drunk, would rather die than get involved again in freedom fighting.</p><p>Until he helps out a sweet poet, and meets the Les Amis' golden, charismatic leader.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Blood of Angry Men

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Place for a Just Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/739488) by [talefeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talefeathers/pseuds/talefeathers). 



> So this is a fic borne from a broken heart after reading talefeathers' Welcome to the New Age. It's wonderfully written, though, so you should definitely read that one, too (there are two stories in the series).
> 
> Anyway, chapter titles, as you will soon notice are based on the lyrics from the musical. I turned this into an AU set in a country under martial law (since that happened in my country years ago, so, homage...) where we get to see what can make R so cynical and where we see an Enjolras that's a lot more ready to take names and kick ass.
> 
> Hope you guys like it! Btw, I'll be updating this with at least one chapter a week.

_June 2099_

They were eighteen and fresh out of high school, the memory of expensive wine still strong on their tongues from the party last night.

Grantaire groaned, kicking the covers off him as he cracked one eye open. He turned his head to the empty space beside him and sighed as he caught sight of the broad-shouldered silhouette on the veranda of their apartment. Well, it was Matthew’s sister’s apartment, but she was rarely around, her work sometimes requiring her to stay the night at some politician’s house.

“Fuck, it’s five in the morning!” Grantaire closed his eyes, but got up anyway, stumbling towards the figure. “And after last night, I thought you’d at least be asleep till after lunch.”

Matthew chuckled, not even turning around. Grantaire leaned against the rails and glared at his boyfriend, his annoyance slowly turning into fondness when the other man grinned at him. “You _were_ a bit enthusiastic last night.”

“Just a bit?” Grantaire’s brows danced, the edges of his lips inching upwards in mirth.

Matthew leaned closer and brought his hands around Grantaire, effectively bracketing him against the rail. The dawning rays of the sun bounced off Matthew's dark red hair as if to set him aflame.

“A lot,” Matthew amended and pressed his lips against Grantaire’s. Slowly, he pulled away. “But we’ve got bigger things to do. Remember what we promised?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and folded his arms. “Can’t we just celebrate our new-found freedom first? Or the fact that we don’t have to spend another day with the National Guard watching our school like vultures?”

Matthew pulled away and straightened his back, leaving Grantaire feeling suddenly cold despite the brightening day. “I guess you’re right. Our plans can come later.”

“Much, much later,” Grantaire said, stepping towards Matthew like a magnet seeking its opposite pole. “When we’re sure the people will help.”

“They will.” Matthew’s brows pulled together, his eyes so dark, Grantaire could almost see his reflection on them. “I promise you, they will.”

Grantaire nodded. He didn’t put much stock in the people, but if Matthew promised it… He grabbed his boyfriend’s arm and dragged him back inside. “Well, c’mon, we can’t scheme on an empty stomach.”

 

_January 2100_

The turn of the century started with Matthew’s arrest. And the blood of angry men beating down and being beaten in return. The National Guard dragged Matthew away from Grantaire’s hands, their tableau witnessed by crying and yelling protesters.

But they knew it would happen. It was part of the plan. For months now, their group had made waves in Paris - liberals, rebels, freedom fighters. Whatever people called them, no one denied that they had upended the silent oppression that had been going on for decades.

They had spoken against the laws that allowed the president’s cronies to seize private properties for their own. They gave out written arguments on the state of the economy, with the growing disparity between the poor and the rich. They compared government leaders to Roman conspirators. And when they were threatened, they took to social media.

The people were up in arms. The Council of Western States met to address the growing unrest in the State of France. But instead of admitting corruption and dictatorship, Theodule Gillenormand armed his soldiers and showed his true colors. And plunged the country into martial law.

Matthew, whether Grantaire had wanted it or not, had become freedom’s symbol. The people rallied for him as much as they did for democracy. Much to Grantaire’s chagrin, Matthew accepted his role with aplomb.

So when Matthew was taken by the soldiers, Grantaire wasted no time rallying the people, trying not wince and cringe at the cameras, phones, and tablets aimed at him and his friends.

“They’ve taken Matthew Beaumont! They’ve taken him because he fought for our rights! Our freedom! They think they can shut us up.” He whirled to the soldiers who gripped their weapons tighter, their shoulders against each other to form a solid human wall outside the State hall. “They think we will stop our fight. But they are wrong.”

He stepped on the platform that Matthew had unwillingly abandoned and addressed the incensed crowd. “We will continue the fight until they free him! Will you fight with us?”

A loud chorus of “Yes!” Brought a smile to Grantaire’s face. He turned to his friends. Amelia nodded at him, her jaw clenched, but her eyes radiating with furious determination.

“Tomorrow, we will be here,” Grantaire continued. “We will continue to fight. We will not surrender!”

The soldiers responded by tossing them tear gas.

They scattered and ran to their safe houses, to their underground headquarters. Elias, their resident IT expert, uploaded videos and pictures online, taking care to make sure they didn’t get tracked or hacked.

That night, Grantaire pressed Matthew’s pillow close to his chest, trying to inhale his boyfriend’s scent. They’ll have him back soon, he knew that. Matthew was strong. And he promised Grantaire he would take care of himself. He promised he would be back. And among everything Grantaire believed in, he believed in Matthew the most.

Until the day he was released.


	2. The Color of Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The failed rebellion. June 2100.
> 
> In which the most romantic poem, for Grantaire, is W.H. Auden's "Funeral Blues".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look me up at shamelesslunacies.tumblr.com :)

_ He was my North, my South, my East and West, _

_ My working week and my Sunday rest, _

_ My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; _

_ I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. _

 

It was the poem Grantaire recited for their Literature class. It was a Valentine’s Day presentation. Naturally, his classmates pounced on the largest collection of Shakespearean works.

Giggles and teasings filled most of the period. A few recited sonnets on unrequited love. But the playful mood persisted.

Until Grantaire recited W.H. Auden’s  _ Funeral Blues _ . A hush had fallen on the entire room, when they realized what the poem was about. Mr. Marceaux had pinched his cheeks as if sucking on sour lemon. Grantaire had apparently destroyed everyone’s good mood.

When he’d gotten to the end, though, he didn’t expect a loud clap from the back of the room.

Matthew Beaumont was clapping his hands, and he was smiling. For a full minute, Grantaire just stood and stared. He’d noticed Matthew before, of course. He was tall and strong and smart. He was popular. Grantaire just didn’t think that the other boy would ever notice him, too, though.

Their teacher cleared his throat and told Grantaire to take his seat. He went back to his chair, and Johnson Mills, who sat in front of him turned to say, “It was supposed to be a romantic poem, dipshit.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, but before he could effectively brain Johnson with a really large book, Matthew said, in a low but playful voice, “Nothing’s more romantic than tragic love, Johnson. After all, you recited something from  _ Romeo and Juliet _ , right?”

Johnson snorted, but turned back to listen to the newest presenter. After their class, Matthew had asked him why he picked that poem, and the only thing Grantaire was able to say was, “Because after I die, I’d want my lover to recite that during the eulogy.”

He wanted to say more, like how he wish he had someone who loved him so much that his death would mean the crumbling of someone’s world. Selfish, Grantaire knew. But to be loved so passionately and intensely like that was something he had only ever dreamed.

Surprisingly, those memories were the first thing that flashed through Grantaire’s mind during the events of June 2100.

They had kept up the protests for months after Matthew’s arrest. There was an outpouring of support online and offline. Some of them were still beaten; Smoke bombs were used.

But after five months of non-stop street protests, the government announced that they would finally release Matthew Beaumont.

People filled every street, alley, and shops near the State hall. Five soldiers escorted Matthew down the marble steps. Grantaire couldn’t help the gasp that escaped him. No one had been allowed to visit Matthew, not even his sister. Beside him, Laura Beaumont, stood stock still.

Matthew’s once broad figure had shrunk down to size, his cheeks looking hollow, his eyes dark, and his gait slow and awkward.

Grantaire squeezed Laura’s hand, as much for his own sake as her’s. He wanted to run up the stairs and snatch Matthew from the soldiers’ hands, wanted to punch them, aim their own weapons at them…

But by then the people were already cheering. The soldiers had un-cuffed him. Dressed in the clothes he was arrested in, Matthew walked down slowly. He looked weak, but he was smiling.

Grantaire and Laura were pressed tightly against the rails that the soldiers’ had placed in front of the hall. Matthew stood in front of them, arms stretched out.

“We did it,” he had said.

Grantaire nodded. They had showed Gillenormand that the people would prevail. He stretched out a hand to grasp Matthew’s right arm as their other friends extended their own hands to get Matthew over the barricade.

One minute, Grantaire was staring at Matthew’s smile. The next, he was blinking against the sudden blurring of his vision. He blinked his eyes. There was something caught in his lashes, something on his face, something dripping down his cheeks.

A scream shattered the stillness that might have only existed in Grantaire’s mind. The crowd broke, the people no longer a united force. People ducked and ran for cover, but there were no reports, no terrifying spray of bullets.

Grantaire looked down at the weight in his arms, his brain failing to catch up.

“No!” Laura wailed, falling to her knees.

“You bastards!” André, their very vocal campaign manager, rushed over the rails at the soldiers. “You bastards!”

A soldier pulled a gun on him. Shot him in one second. The screams started again, but no one was shooting at the crowd. Only at the small group that had gathered around Matthew.

“Grantaire!” Amelia pulled at his collar. “We have to leave. Omigawd they’re -”

She slumped beside him, her chest stained red.

Mechanically, like a robot, Grantaire turned to her. His eyes wandered to André, on his back on the ground. Elias was on his chest, a large hole in his head. Beatrice, Simone, Lucas, Laura… She’d been standing right next to him. Why was she suddenly on the ground beside André?

There was a click above his head, but Grantaire didn’t turn, his heart beating fast, but his brain was still sluggish. Matthew was just smiling a second ago. Matthew was reaching out to him. Matthew was holding his hand. Matthew had promised….

“What about this one?” A gruff voice asked.

There was a snort. “He’s no threat. Look at him.”

The voices abruptly stopped, like someone had just turned off the radio. Finally, Grantaire looked down at Matthew, the hole between his eyes the first thing to greet him.

He didn’t even realize he had been on his knees the entire time. Nor did he realize that he had been staring at Matthew’s still-smiling corpse for nearly six hours when sympathetic strangers dragged the bodies away and took him home.

No one spoke about it. Not even his friends’ families. No one talked about it. No one uploaded a video or a picture. No one wrote about it.

As if his friends, as if Matthew, as if everything they had been fighting for - everything they had achieved - never happened.

And in the minds of many, they preferred it that way.

Many weeks after, when Grantaire was able to speak again, his first words were, “ _ For nothing now can ever come to any good _ .”

And that's when the people knew that the last of their freedom fighters had died.


	3. The Colors of the World are Changing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later, the former revolutionary meets a new one.

_June 2102_

Grantaire scowled at the calendar. He wanted to rip it off, but it’s not like it would change anything. He’d still have to look at his phone if he wanted to meet his deadlines.

He took another swig of the cheapest beer he’d bought from Eponine’s store. Closing his eyes, he burrowed into the blanket and pillows piled on the hard brown lump he called a couch.

Not for the first time he wished he had bought an actual bed. But then, he’d have to cut back on his liquor stock. He grimaced. Doesn’t even bear thinking about. How else would he survive each day?

He opened his eyes as the doorknob turned. No instinct told him to run or sit upright. It’s not that he was already too drunk to be alert. It’s that he didn’t care who came in - to give him dinner or shank him.

Fortunately - or unfortunately for Grantaire - it was the former.

Eponine sighed when she stepped in. She closed the door and, without saying anything, flopped down on the only other chair in the small studio and began placing cartons on his small coffee table (the only other table in the room - the other one held Grantaire’s art tools).

“Eat,” Eponine simply said.

Like a trained pet, Grantaire leaned forward and opened the cartons. The smell of cooked meat and noodles filled the room. He devoured the meal in a matter of minutes.

“You didn’t eat lunch again, did you?” Eponine asked.

The first time she had to ask, she was angry. Now, there was no bite in her question. Just resignation.

Grantaire waved a hand to the empty bottles at the foot of the coffee table.

Eponine shook her head and sighed.

“Stop that,” Grantaire said, leaning back against his couch, patting the small paunch he was contemplating growing.

“Stop what?” Eponine asked, gathering the empty cartons and depositing them in a small trash can in the similarly small kitchen. “Stop caring for a friend?”

“Stop sighing at me.”

“Only if you give me a reason.”

“I’m fine.”

This time, though, Eponine didn’t sigh. Instead, she jerked her head at the poster - several posters actually - on Grantaire’s walls.

 _The State of France: Flourishing Under the Gillenormand Regime_.

“Really?” Eponine said, her dark brows meeting, her forehead creasing. “After almost two years, you still haven’t taken these stupid posters off?”

She stood up and stared at the posters, swinging her shoulder-length dark hair behind her back. She looked like she might actually tear off Gillenormand’s face, but Grantaire knew she respected his mourning - of course he was mourning, he wasn’t going to deny that. He will always be in mourning. He could never move on. He didn’t want to either.

“When will you stop punishing yourself, R?”

It was a testament to their friendship - a strong friendship that had developed in less than two years when the streetwise young woman had stopped a cynical drunkard from diving headfirst into the Seine - that Eponine had kept to the nickname, never having used “Grantaire” ever since… well, ever since “Grantaire” had died.

Instead of answering, Grantaire drained his last bottle. “How’s Gavroche?”

Eponine turned away from the posters and flopped down beside him. She wasn’t a cuddler, but he was - or had been - and he silently thanked her for the warmth.

“Still causing trouble,” Eponine murmured, “but he keeps it to a minimum.” She glanced at Grantaire. “But he wants to see you work at your paintings.”

Grantaire raised a brow. There was still a clawing in his chest, but the years of drinking and the occasional cigarette had dulled it a bit. “He wants to look at my paintings of our ‘highly esteemed president’?”

Eponine leaned her head against his shoulders, her hair tickling his chin, just as his short dark curls and stubble were probably tickling hers. “No. The other paintings.”

He stilled for a second before his body unfroze. “I don’t paint anything else, Eponine. If I did, I’d starve. Nothing else sells here but the president’s stupid face.”

For a moment he thought she would press him, but she didn’t. They continued to lay there, side by side, for a few minutes more. Then, Eponine stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, R.”

He nodded, not saying anything. He knew better than to lie, even to himself.

***

He sold five paintings today. One was a painting of the president during his regular Monday broadcast on national television. The other four were of the president against some historical landmark.

He guessed he should be thankful he was still allowed to ply his trade. There wasn’t much use for painters now. There wasn’t much use for the arts, but nostalgia shops, like this one owned by Jean Fauchelevent, was popular among the older generation. Sometimes, even young ones would drop by to look up old artworks, technology, and books.

But every piece of item had been inspected by the National Guard. Grantaire was allowed to paint, provided it showed only the glory of the new France under the current president’s rule. Anything else would, obviously, be treason.

A part of him wanted to rip the works he did, though. Even though rich sycophants bought his paintings, Grantaire often found himself beating his brushes against the president’s face on the canvases. Probably because many of his customers remind him _nearly every damn time_ that he should be thankful for the president’s clemency. Grantaire had become the symbol of the president’s mercy and kindness.

He was allowed to live only to serve as a reminder to the people of the price of rebellion, and to reassert the idea that the president was, in fact, quite generous.

Grantaire wanted to poison himself. It’s why he’d been drinking constantly. And smoking when he got the chance, away from Eponine’s and Monsieur Fauchelevent’s eyes. How many years did that leave him? Hopefully not too long.

“Ready to go home?” A sweet voice asked from inside the store.

Grantaire had just finished putting away his tools. He turned to his employer’s daughter with a smile. “Almost, Cosette. You should go home now. I can close the shop.”

“I can wait for you.” The wide-eyed young woman shrugged and graced him with a smile. “It’s no problem.” She flopped down on one gilded chair that was, according to Monsieur Fauchelevent’s records, used by a very proud French king who liked heels.

“Seriously, you should go,” Grantaire said fondly. “Your father will be waiting for you, and we both know he gets extremely paranoid when you’re not home on time.”

Cosette rolled her eyes, but smiled all the same. “I’m not a child, you know. I’m just several years younger than you.”

“You’re seventeen,” Grantaire muttered. “And today your hair is blonde.”

Cosette shrugged. “I was bored with my dark hair. I’ve had it for years. I wanted something else.” She ran a hand down her hair. “Does it - is it bad?”

Grantaire shook his head as he arranged frames on one table. “It looks good on you, but then again, you look good in anything.”

Cosette snorted, then stood up. “All right then, I’ll leave you to it.” She went to the door, but turned around before leaving. “By the way, I think it’s going to be beautiful.”

“What?”

Cosette grinned at him. “Whatever it is you're painting.” Then, she was out before Grantaire could make up a lame excuse.

He half wondered whether he should really just burn them all, with Eponine and Cosette, and obviously Gavroche, knowing - suspecting - that he still… But he couldn’t stop himself.

He couldn’t direct his own feet to steer away from the backroom, where he painted. He couldn’t freeze his own hands when he picked up a brush, dipped it in red, and lovingly stroked the canvas with it. He couldn’t still the joy blossoming in his heart when his mind’s eye supplied him with memories he could share with no one else.

Red hair. Dark eyes. That grin. He hadn’t even finished the hair, but Grantaire could already see what it would look like. It’s not like he could ever forget how _he_ looked like.

This would be the last, though, Grantaire told himself. His painting would be that last. He’d already done Amelia, Beatrice, and the rest. Matthew’s was the final piece.

BAM! BAM!

The brush flew out of his hands at the sound. Grantaire jumped so fast, his chair toppled to the side. He looked around, eyes alert.

BAM!

“Anyone? Is anyone there?”

That cry was from outside.

“Shit. Oh, shit, fuck!” He threw every expletive he knew in the air, his hands hovering over the canvas, the brushes, everything. In one quick movement, he threw a sheet over his materials, praying to anyone who was listening that his painting wouldn’t be ruined.

“Anyone? Please let me in! Please!”

The door coughed, under the strain of whoever was beating at it from outside.

“We’re closed,” Grantaire said, deliberately making his voice sound throaty and hopefully menacing as he pressed his ear against the wood, praying there wasn’t a gun placed on the other side.

“Please, just open up. I can explain. It’s an emergency. Please!”

Grantaire could just wait it out, but if the man outside continued the racket, he’d attract the attention of the patrolling police. And the police surely knew Grantaire, knew what he was. And the thought of them trudging inside the shop, inside his second home, barging in to see every nook and cranny, even the backroom.

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Thank you!” was the only thing he heard before something streaked past him.

With a curse, Grantaire immediately closed the door again, locking everything into place and immediately turning off the lights.

Minutes later, running footsteps littered outside the shop. Grantaire held his breath.

“Tunnels,” came a muffled order outside. “Don’t make too much noise. We don’t want these people to know.”

And then, silence.

In fact, it was too much silence that Grantaire almost forgot he wasn’t the only one inside the shop. He cursed again, enough to out-swear a shipful of sailors. He waited for a minute to get his eyesight adjusted to the darkness before crawling his way around the shop.

 _Fuck_. If the guy was a criminal. If it was some thief he let in. If it was a fuckin’ murderer! He inched his way towards the backroom, where the dim light was still lit. His heart continued to hammer in his chest. He slipped inside the backroom and gasped.

The man he had let in - actually he looked younger than Grantaire, his face soft, his hair light and smooth - was looking at his painting, his eyes wide. A cold dread filled Grantaire’s stomach.

In one move, Grantaire tore the other man’s hand away, his own cold against the other’s warm one. “Who are you?”

The other man gulped, brown eyes impossibly wide now that he’d seen Grantaire’s face. The man recognized him. He recognized Grantaire. He recognized Matthew.

“You’re Grantaire,” the man said in an almost reverent exhale.

“I don’t go by that name anymore,” he sneered, clenching the man’s shirt in his right hand. “Now who are you and why are people chasing you?”

“Guard,” the man wheezed. “That was the National Guard.”

Grantaire released him with a gasp, as if burned. Not the local police, but the National Guard. That meant…

“Who are you?” Grantaire repeated, stepping away but keeping the other man in his sight.

The man took a deep breath… and _smiled_.

“You can call me Jehan.” He reached out a hand. “And we’ve been looking for you, Grantaire. We've been looking for you for a really long time.”


	4. Another Day, Another Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire learns more about the foolhardy new group of freedom fighters. And despite his best efforts to stay away, he finds himself drawn into another wave of revolution. Because that's how much he wants to punish himself.

The tiny pulse of his watch nearly lulled Grantaire to sleep. Unlike most people, he still wore the old mechanical timekeeper, a gift from Cosette for his birthday, because it was less complicated than the newer digital ones.

Or maybe he just had a thing about things from the past.

Except his old name on the lips of this stranger and his eerie smile.

“So,” the man - Jehan - began.

“Quiet.”

Jehan shut his mouth, his smile dimming a little. “You’re Grantaire.”

“Not anymore.” Grantaire turned away from the still grinning man seated cross-legged at the foot of his cot. He sneaked a glance at his watch. It was already five minutes to eleven, way past curfew. He fidgeted on his cot, silently thanking Cosette for providing him with one when she realized he liked to stay late… to do something.

Jehan picked at his shirt - sweater, really - and bit his lower lip. He looked a little bit older than Cosette, but not much. Still, he made Grantaire wary. If the National Guard was after him, then he was a dangerous man. Not a mere thief or runaway or someone disobeying the curfew.

Yet Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to throw him out. Instead, he let the younger man stay in the backroom with him, to wait out the long hours till six in the morning.

“Grantaire,” Jehan began again.

Grantaire sighed and ran a hand down his face, resting it on his jaw, rubbing at his stubble. “R.”

“Are what?”

“Call me ‘R’.”

“‘Are’?” Jehan echoed, his brows furrowed as he inched closer. “As in the verb?”

Grantaire grit his teeth and glared at the younger man, who didn’t look like he was mocking anything. The kid looked so innocent, so genuine, Grantaire wanted to pull his own curls.

“I meant the letter ‘R’. That’s what people call me now. Not Grantaire. Never Grantaire.”

Jehan nodded slowly, his eyes darting towards the paintings that Grantaire had covered. “So that’s why we couldn’t find you.”

“Who the hell is ‘we’?” Grantaire spat, and when Jehan flinched at his tone, he amended with, “And why’re you people looking for me?”

“You know why we’re looking for you,” Jehan said. He leaned against Grantaire’s cot, his eyes impossibly huge, which Grantaire knew must be a deliberate effect to look pitiful. “You’re -”

“-not the person you’re looking for,” Grantaire finished, sitting up. “You know you’re not the first one. You think you and your friends can continue what we’ve done? You’re an idiot. And if you don’t warn your friends, you’ll find their bodies floating on the Seine the next day.”

Jehan blinked, then bowed his head.

Grantaire never knew what to expect from people like Jehan, usually young blood who thought they could continue the fight for freedom, only for their bloated bodies to be found floating under the bridge before they could even come up with a name for their group.

“We’re different,” Jehan said, lifting his head up. “If only you could see -”

“Drop it. Just be thankful I let you in.”

Jehan propped an elbow beside Grantaire’s legs. “Thank you, by the way.”

“As long as you leave me alone,” Grantaire muttered, his eyelids feeling heavy. “And as long as you don’t tell anyone about…” He jerked his head towards the paintings.

Jehan’s eyes widened. “Oh, I won’t! Of course not!”

Grantaire couldn’t explain how a bigger part of him actually believed Jehan, but there was still the smaller part that said the younger man couldn’t be trusted. Maybe he was a spy. Either way, Grantaire would have to move the paintings. Hide them. Burn them? The thought made him nauseous.

Jehan tried to strike up conversation, but when Grantaire only responded with grunts, he stopped and they waited out the dawn, bleary-eyed and tired - well, at least Grantaire was. Jehan had slept, slumped beside Grantaire’s cot.

***

“And this happened a week ago?” Eponine asked, wiping the glasses on the countertop where Grantaire had plastered himself ever since the bar opened.

Bahorel gave a low whistle as he stepped beside Eponine, his barista uniform impeccable despite it being second hand. “Wouldn’t be surprised if we see his face in the news soon.”

“If his death makes it too the news,” Grantaire muttered. “You know they’re gonna keep this thing under wraps. Sure, they talk about crime, but not this.”

“Because if they don’t talk about a rebellion, then it doesn’t exist,” Eponine whispered.

Grantaire winced as he sipped his beer. Bahorel drummed his fingers against the countertop, sneaking a look at Grantaire, who saw the glance and raised a brow. “What?”

Bahorel shook his head. “So you guys over at my place this Saturday?”

Grantaire frowned and chuckled. “Don’t you have, like, finals or something?”

“Had the last one last week.” Bahorel grinned.

A woman flopped down beside Grantaire and Bahorel turned to her. Eponine sighed as she looked at the near-empty bar. It was hard to run a drinking establishment that catered to almost nocturnal clients when the curfew starts just when your customers want to get shit-faced drunk.

Grantaire knew she might just sell the bar, though. She had Gavroche to look after, and they were already behind their rent.

After a few hours, they closed shop, the three of them slightly hobbling in the dark to get home before curfew. Grantaire waved at them. He wasn’t that eager to get to his deathtrap of an apartment, but Monsieur Fauchelevent had wanted to close the shop early, and Grantaire couldn’t go back for his paintings. He never did finish Matthew’s. It was already too much of a risk. He contemplated destroying the paintings.

When he stepped inside the studio, though, he heard the gentle click of a hammer being pulled. His first thoughts were of Eponine and Bahorel.

His second thought flew to the man currently bleeding on his couch.

“What the -?”

“R,” the man on the couch groaned.

Someone - the one with the gun no doubt - pushed him forward and Grantaire stumbled towards the couch. Under the dirty light bulb, he saw Jehan’s ashen face, his right hand gripping his bloodied shirt.

When Jehan groaned again, Grantaire unstuck his tongue from his mouth. He dropped to his knees. “What the hell?”

“I got shot.”

“He said you could help.”

Grantaire nearly jumped out of his skin and turned to see the gunman materialize beside him. This one was around Grantaire’s age, his face scrunched in worry, wavy dark hair doubtlessly hiding a wound because a trickle of blood was dripping by the side of his face.

_ Blood flowing between his eyes _ .

Grantaire shook his head. Get a grip! Two years. He thought he was ready to handle intrusive memories.

“ _ Can _ you help him?” The gunman asked. “The bullet went through. Clean shot, but -”

Grantaire licked his lips, trying to get his mouth working again. He nodded. “Okay, get water from the sink. Then heat it up. I’ll get some bandages.”

_ Did _ he have bandages? He didn’t know. He didn’t even remember what most of his things in the room were. He was half-alive, half-stuck in a limbo of memories when Eponine helped him buy this studio.

“Shit,” he muttered, flinging things around. There was nothing under the coffee table. He nearly tripped on his own feet trying to get to the set of shelves in the kitchen.

The gunman had the water heated. He looked at Grantaire with a hooded look in his eyes, but he said nothing.

Finally, one shelf revealed a pitiful medical kit, with only a few band-aids, a small bottle of Betadine, alcohol, and bandages. He turned to the gunman. “Get a small knife. Wash it with warm water. Heat it.”

“You’re gonna cauterize it?”

“To stop the bleeding, yeah.” He turned back to the medical kit. Now he needed antibiotics to stave off infection till they could get Jehan to a hospital - His hands froze. Fuck, what was he doing?

His heart thudded loudly against his chest. For a moment, he had been somewhere familiar. He had been sure, quick on his feet, his dull inebriation forgotten the instant someone needed help. Someone who got shot.

“What’s wrong?” the gunman asked. He got the small knife and was now turning off the small stove.

Grantaire took a deep breath. “I can’t help him.”

“What?” It was practically a squawk, which was drastically at odds with how ominous he had seemed minutes ago, lurking behind the door with his gun.

“He needs a hospital,” Grantaire hissed.

“He can’t go to the hospital!” the gunman said. “You have to help him.”

“I  _ can’t _ .”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Oh for the love of -!”

The gunman brought his gun up this time, aiming it at Grantaire’s face. “Help him. Help him or I will blow your -”

“Courfeyrac, stop.”

Grantaire and - what was the guy’s name? It sounded like coffee rack? - the gunman turned to Jehan who looked like he was hyperventilating on the couch. “It’s okay, R. It’s - I’ll - I’ll be - okay, I promise.”

_ I promise, Grantaire _ .

Grantaire sucked a breath. “No, you won’t.”  _ I don’t believe in promises anymore _ .

“Get the knife and the hot water,” he snapped at the gunman and brought the medical kit to Jehan. “Don’t move,” he told the younger man.

“There’s something seriously wrong with you,” Coffee Rack muttered, stowing the gun away. He placed the water in a bowl and shuffled beside Grantaire, on his knees.

Grantaire peeled Jehan’s shirt upwards, and cleaned the wound. He and Coffee Rack worked side by side, silently, till they got to where Grantaire grabbed the knife from the gunman and pressed it, without preamble, on the wound. With the other hand, he covered Jehan’s mouth.

The younger man closed his eyes, tears escaping from his closed lids. But Grantaire didn’t see him - this fair-haired revolutionary who was hardly a man. No, Grantaire only saw dark red hair and a cold, blank face.

When Jehan had passed out, Grantaire went to work with the bandages. The gunman sat on the floor, watching him quietly. Grantaire finished and leaned back against the couch.

“Thank you,” Coffee Rack said with a small smile.

“He still needs a doctor, you know.”

The gunman nodded. “Don’t worry, we’ve got two.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Grantaire muttered, before he could stop himself.

The gunman chuckled. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes.

The gunman gave a low laugh. “No, but I’m serious. I’ll have to kill you.”

Grantaire crossed his arms. “Not if the National Guard kills you first.”

That shut Coffee Rack up.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Grantaire said, leaning his head against Jehan’s jean-clad leg. “This isn’t a game. If you keep it up, this one here won’t be the only one with bullets in him.”

“We’re not treating it like a game,” the gunman said, his eyes dark as he stared resolutely at Grantaire. “We know what we’re up against. We’re prepared.”

Grantaire wanted to shout. He wanted to shake the other man. He wanted to punch him. Maybe shoot him and save him further pain. Instead he laughed. So this was how he must’ve looked like to others. Idealistic. Naive.  _ Blind _ . Thinking they could change the world.

“That’s what the last group said,” he shot back, clenching his teeth against the white hot pain in his heart. Oh, why did he keep doing this to himself? He sneered at the gunman. “And where are they now? Dead.  _ Dead _ .” And because he wanted that pain again, he repeated, “Dead.”

He could see Coffee Rack was restraining himself from either punching or strangling Grantaire, his fists trembling on his lap.

“Not all of them,” he said. “There’s still one of them. And we’ll find him.”

So Jehan didn’t tell them. Grantaire didn’t know how to feel about that.

“Even if you do,” Grantaire began, even though his tongue felt like sandpaper, “what makes you think he’ll help you?”

The gunman scoffed. “Why won’t he? We’ll win. This time. We’ll free France.”

Oh, foolish youth. Pitiful naivete.

“Good luck with that.”

“You don’t believe me.” When Grantaire didn’t respond with more than an eyeroll, he continued, “Jehan was right, you are a cynic.”

“No.” Grantaire stood up and dusted his jeans. “I’m being realistic.”

“You’ve lost hope.”

“Good thing I did, too.” He went to the cabinet beside the couch and threw a pillow at Coffee Rack. “Hope can get you killed. Get some sleep. If you pull a gun on me, I’ll kick you out.”

It was a weak threat, but Grantaire lost any strength Jehan’s condition had brought out in him. He pulled out his blanket and folded it under his head. He slept by the kitchen, keeping Jehan and the gunman in his line of sight, hoping everything would all be a dream when he woke up.

The next day, he almost believed it when he didn’t see Jehan or the gunman in his apartment.

Except for a note on his coffee table, pinned down by a ceramic mug.

_ The caged bird sings _

_ with a fearful trill _

_ of things unknown _

_ but longed for still _

_ and his tune is heard _

_ on the distant hill _

_ for the caged bird _

_ sings of freedom. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is from "Caged Bird" by Maya Angelou.
> 
> I really didn't know how to pronounce Courfeyrac's name before (I thought it was cor-fay-rak until I listened to the Broadway versions where Enjolras pronounced it like ku-fe-rahk), lol.
> 
> Also, next chapter we'll see Montparnasse and a certain charismatic marble statue.


	5. In a Moment of Breathless Delight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet the leader at last.

“Tomorrow morning at the State hall,” Grantaire said, handing the young man a pamphlet, his chin trying to hold the umbrella in place against his chest. He scowled when the pamphlet got wet, but his not-so-captivated audience reached for it anyway, despite the rain.

The younger man looked doubtful, but gave Grantaire a small smile. He was very young, but had wide, searching eyes. Freckles stood at attention on his pale face, his brown hair styled close to his head. He held his own umbrella, but shivered despite the light brown coat around his thin frame.

“It’ll just be a peaceful protest, right?”

Grantaire glanced at the boy’s gangly limbs and nodded. “No violence. Just, uh, airing our grievances.”

The boy nodded, pursing his lips. When he looked back up at Grantaire, his eyes were hopeful. “You think he’ll listen? You think it’ll change things?”

What did this one want to hear? Grantaire didn’t know. He wasn’t sure, but Matthew said he felt it, a stirring in his bones, a howl in the wind. He said change was coming. Something big was about to happen. He looked over his shoulder at Matthew and Amelia conversing with a group of students from the university, frowns and furrowed brows on their faces, their dark umbrellas covering their heads like a shield. A sense of dread settled in Grantaire’s stomach, but he dismissed the feeling. He was always anxious every time they planned a protest. Anxious and excited, but so far, nothing has happened.

Grantaire nodded and smiled for the boy’s benefit. “Trust me, it’ll change things.”

 

***

Grantaire bolted upright, eyes seeking his clock like a missile. 9 AM. He groaned, but didn’t flop back down. He was already late, and Monsieur Fauchelevent, though usually accommodating and kind, was very stern.

Not bothering to take a shower, Grantaire pulled on a dark green jacket, changed his pants, and fled out of his studio while putting on his shoes. As soon as he stepped outside, though, he cursed.

Huge droplets pelted his head and face, and he pulled the hood of his jacket up in an attempt to lessen the drench. He ran towards the shop, sloshing water all over his jeans, the smell of the pavement bringing bitter memories to his head.

It must have been raining since the sun rose, water already pooling in cracks and running down the sewers.

He turned a corner and nearly slipped.

Claquesous.

Grantaire bit his lower lip, his heart beating loudly from his run, but now he was trying to quiet it, as if the thin man with the beak-like nose might hear it. But why was Claquesous here? An informer for the National Guard surely had no business with a nostalgia shop. And there were no other guards around.

With a sick feeling running up and down his chest, Grantaire debated whether he should turn around and go back. He was just a few steps from the shop, where Fauchelevent was talking to Claquesous from the doorway, as if barring the other man from entering.

Maybe Claquesous was here to talk to Grantaire, make sure he wasn’t up to his old _habits_.

Before Grantaire could decide, though, a dark-haired young man had emerged beside Claquesous and looked over his shoulder, meeting Grantaire’s eye.

“R!” he greeted, a leering grin on his face.

Grantaire wanted to punch him, but settled for a curt nod instead. Montparnasse was always hanging around Claquesous like a tag-along kid brother, but Grantaire knew he was the best and worst of his small street gang, Patron-Minette.

He would have been handsome, a youthful beauty that had hardly aged, but Montparnasse had a twisted soul. He liked power, enjoyed dangling it in front of people, enjoyed knowing things that could cost lives.

“What were you doing hanging out here?” he said, as soon as Grantaire was at the doorway of the shop.

“Get in, R,” Fauchelevent said, his gray brows furrowed. “Go find Cosette and get dry.”

“Oh, but we have something to ask him, Monsieur,” Claquesous said.

Grantaire hid his clenched fists in the pocket of his jacket and gave the other man his best glare. “What can I help you with, Monsieur Claquesous?”

“You look a bit under the weather,” Montparnasse said, his right hand reaching for Grantaire’s face. He stepped backwards and glared at the younger man, who laughed. “I was just being friendly, R.” He dragged Grantaire’s name like tongue on sandpaper. Grantaire gritted his teeth at the phantom pain.

“A few days ago,” Claquesous began, “some dissidents had vandalized public property.”

Grantaire raised a brow. That certainly had nothing to do with him.

“One of them was shot. He and his companion are part of a group of rebels.”

Grantaire’s heart thudded harshly in his chest. Could it have been Jehan and Coffee Rack? Or some other would-be revolutionaries?

Claquesous seemed to be waiting for his answer, but Grantaire had none to give, because what was the question anyway?

Montparnasse’s face broke into a slow grin. “We thought you might know something about it, R. Maybe you’ve heard of schoolboys playing heroes?”

An ice-cold sensation that had nothing to do with the rain ran down Grantaire’s back. “What, you think I’d lead my own little army, Montparnasse? Get everyone killed because of some stupid dream for freedom?”

Montparnasse grinned and leaned forward into Grantaire’s face. “Just making sure, R. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you now, would we?” He turned to Claquesous, his grin fading, and nodded.

The two men abruptly turned around. Fauchelevent stepped aside and motioned Grantaire inside the warmth of the shop, where Cosette was waiting with a towel.

“I hate that man,” she muttered.

Grantaire didn’t need to ask who she meant.

“They’ve been going around Paris,” Fauchelevent said, closing the door, “since yesterday. Apparently, they’d been following the wrong trail the night one of the rebels got shot.”

“Do you think they’re still alive?” Cosette asked, handing Grantaire the towel. She turned away from him to pour tea into three cups.

Her father took one and sipped. He turned towards the window where the downpour continued. “Even if they are, they wouldn’t live long if they continue what they’re doing.”

Grantaire snorted. “They’re idiots.”

“They’re brave,” Cosette said, giving Grantaire a hot cup and a sad smile, before she sat down beside him. “Idiotic, but brave.”

Fauchelevent shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. As long as we keep our heads down and do our own business, we’ll be fine. Let’s not involve ourselves in things that snatch attention.” He aimed his last statement at Grantaire, who shook his head.

“Trust me, I’ve learned my lesson,” he said, eyes downcast. “It’s a fool’s dream to try to change the world.”

They sipped their tea in silence, and after a few minutes, went to work. But they only had two customers. The rain continued and didn’t stop.

Grantaire waved at Cosette and her father as he walked away, Cosette’s umbrella in hand. She had insisted despite his assurance that he could just run towards his studio.

He hated the rain, hated how it made Paris dark and gloomy, hated how it reminded him of better days, better people.

He was intent on remembering his hatred that he didn’t notice a shadow walking behind him.

“Going home, Grantaire?”

He whirled around, almost tripping over his own feet, his heart jumping to his throat. Montparnasse’s pale face greeted him under the assault of the rain. Grantaire cursed his own melancholy. Montparnasse had the habit of dressing in black and dwelling in the shadows. It made him feel powerful, bigger.

“What are you doing here?” Grantaire asked, gripping his umbrella tight.

“I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

More like he wanted to make sure Grantaire wasn’t going to meet up with rebels. “Of course you did.”

Montparnasse stepped forward, and it took every ounce of willpower Grantaire had not to run away.

“Can’t I be concerned for a friend?” he said, brows drawn in mock concern.

“We’re not friends,” Grantaire snapped.

“Eponine’s friends,” Montparnasse drawled, “are my friends.”

Grantaire should’ve been more careful, but when he all but growled at the younger man, Montparnasse’s right hand made a jab like a cobra and snared Grantaire’s neck, nearly crushing his windpipe. Montparnasse pushed him against a brick wall, his breath hot on Grantaire’ face.

“You’re not up to your old tricks again, aren’t you, _Grantaire_?” He squeezed, and when Grantaire struggled, his other hand grabbed Grantaire’s right and pinned it over his head. “Because if you are, well… I’d really hate for Fauchelevent and his daughter to end up somewhere… unpleasant.”

“I haven’t…” Grantaire tried to dislodge Montparnasse. “I’ve done nothing. They’ve done nothing.” The force on his neck had lessened, but it was still hard to breathe.

“Really?” Montparnasse released Grantaire’s neck, only to lay cold steel against it. “Are you telling the truth?”

“Yes,” he panted. “I’ve learned my lesson. You know I won’t endanger them. You know it, Montparnasse.”

A hooded look fell on Montparnasse’s eyes. “I do.” But he didn’t let go. “But just so we’re clear…” He took the knife from Grantaire’s neck and stabbed him in the side.

Grantaire gasped at the cold steel that met warm blood. He threw his head back at the shock and closed his eyes at the pain. When he opened his eyes again, a wicked grin graced Montparnasse’s face.

Montparnasse skewered the knife deeper and at Grantaire’s weak gasp, he covered his body and bit into Grantaire’s neck.

Sadist, Grantaire wanted to scream. Traitor. Filth. Scum.

He felt Montparnasse’s lips curl into a grin at the mark he left. There was a shout, and suddenly, Montparnasses stepped away from him and fled. With no force holding him upright, Grantaire slid down against the wall, his vision blurring.

Footsteps approached. Perhaps it was the National Guard come to arrest and kill him at last.

But it was just one pair of legs. Just one person who knelt down beside Grantaire. “What happened?” he asked.

I’m dying, Grantaire wanted to say, but his tongue felt heavy.

Warm hands went to his face, and tilted his head up. Grantaire opened one eye and swore that he was already dead.

Golden halo, made brighter against the light of the moon. Blue eyes like a thawing frozen lake. It was just for a moment, but Grantaire felt relief. If this was the Angel of Death about to take him, Grantaire wouldn’t resist. He smiled as darkness took over his vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't able to update last week because of work and a weekend getaway :) But the new chapter's here now! Yehey! And thanks so much for everyone who's left a kudos and comment. You guys are amazing! Anyway, hit me up at shamelesslunacies.tumblr.com.


	6. My Soul on Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire meets some more rebels and Cosette has a stalker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is - chapter 6! I'm going to post chapter 7 at the end of the week, maybe Friday so no need to suffer much :)
> 
> Also, thanks again for everyone who's left a kudos or a comment! I love you guys.

The Apollo Belvedere was a sculpture, considered to be a great work of aesthetic perfection. It was re-discovered in the 15th century and became popular in the 18th century, but was harshly received during the 19th century, and almost forgotten in the 20th.

Grantaire wondered if the critics were idiots, or just blind old bats wanting to upstage one another by following the trend of who said the harshest words about the sculpture.

Because how could they think such beauty to be beneath fame and acclaim?

If Grantaire had his brushes and paints now, he would attempt to capture the beauty of Apollo’s face, his nose, his lashes, his lips… But he was on a bed, his head heavy, his sides hurting, and the stranger was seated a few paces from him, eyes cast downwards on a book he was holding.

Grantaire stretched out his hand and called, but his breath came out in an inaudible gasp. He licked his lips and tried again, “Apollo.”

The man looked up, sharp eyes landing on Grantaire. Light streaming from a window behind him descended on his golden curls. “Hm. You’re awake.”

There was a sarcastic comment floating around in Grantaire’s brain, but he couldn’t muster the strength to verbalize it. Instead, he tried to sit up, but his elbows trembled under his weight and his sides ached. He hissed and fell back on the bed.

Apollo tsked, but dropped on his knees beside Grantaire. “Calm down, you’re in no danger. Do you know who attacked you?”

Grantaire closed his eyes and took a deep breath, last night’s events replaying in his mind. He shook his head. No need to get this one in trouble with Patron-Minette.

“We should report this.”

Grantaire’s eyes flew open and met dark blue ones. “N-no! You shouldn’t.”

“You’ve been attacked,” the man said with a frown.

“Trust me, the police won’t waste time on it. I don’t know who it was,” Grantaire said, running a hand down his side. It’d been bandaged neatly. “There’s nothing they can do about it.”

“But -”

“Who are you anyway?”

The man stood up and crossed his arms. He seemed to be scrutinizing Grantaire, his lips pressed in a thin line, brows drawn. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the door to the room flew open with a force enough to rattle the wall.

“Enjolras!”

The man pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

So that was Apollo’s name.

But before Grantaire could wallow in the bliss of this knowledge, a shadow fell over the bed, and he gaped. It was Jehan.

“You’re awake!” Jehan said, flopping down on the bed, careful not to jostle Grantaire. “How’re you feeling? Are you all right? Who did this to you?”

As far as Grantaire knew, he and Jehan were not friends, but he did technically save the latter’s life, so maybe this was Jehan just returning the favor?

“You know him?” Enjolras said. He was about to close the door, but another man practically bounced in.

“Courfeyrac, look he’s awake!” Jehan said, pointing to Grantaire.

 _Ah, so that’s his actual name_.

His saviors seemed to have a habit of pointing out the obvious, but Grantaire stilled his tongue. Courfeyrac stepped in, dressed in a brown jacket, a half-smile on his face. “Well, well. Didn’t think we’d see each other again this way, R.”

“R?” Enjolras added. “Is that your name?”

“Why, gotta problem with it?”

Enjolras leaned against the door with his arms folded against his chest. “You know him, too, Courfeyrac?”

Courfeyrac smiled, but it was Jehan who spoke. “He was the one who hid me from the National Guard. And he saved my life when Courfeyrac and I nearly got caught.”

The wrinkles on Enjolras’ smoothed out, and Grantaire took one long look at the three of them before he groaned and covered his face with hands. “Oh, you have got to be shitting me.”

Jehan patted his arm soothingly.

Grantaire peered up at Jehan. “You people are gonna get yourselves _killed_.”

Enjolras dropped his hands and strode to Jehan, who said, “Relax, Enj, he can be trusted.”

Grantaire grabbed Jehan’s hand. Did he tell them? Did these people know who Grantaire was? But Jehan shook his head at the unanswered question. He must’ve seen the desperate look in Grantaire’s eyes.

“Even though,” Enjolras began, dropping to his knees again and looking Grantaire in the eye. “Know this: If you tell anyone, you will not see tomorrow.”

Grantaire snorted. Did he think that was a threat? Please, Grantaire had heard worse. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone that you’re playing hero. I won’t have to. You’ll be dead in a few weeks anyway.”

Jehan frowned and Courfeyrac’s hand flew to the back of his pants, where he no doubt placed his gun.

“What do you mean?” Enjolras said, his voice a deep growl that made the hair on Grantaire’s nape stand at attention.

Grantaire snorted and turned to Jehan. “What, you didn’t warn your friends?” He looked back at Enjolras, who had now stood up so Grantaire had to literally look up at him. “This - whatever it is you’re doing - won’t last. There are already rumors about revolutionary-wannabes. The National Guard’s on to you.” He pointed at Jehan. “What happened to him last time’s gonna be like a dream compared to what’ll happen to you when you get caught.”

“We know the consequences,” Enjolras said, his lips curling into a near-sneer. “We’re not stupid. We’re not careless. But at least we’re not cowards.”

“Hey,” Jehan began, patting Enjolras’ arm. “Don’t be like that. R’s…”

“Know what?” Grantaire sat up, ignoring the sharp pain on his side. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”

“You’re not yet well!” Jehan said.

Grantaire glared at him. “I’ll live.” He ignored Jehan’s worried looks. When he was sure that he wasn’t going to topple over, he placed a hand against the wall until he reached the door.

“Oh, and thanks for the bandages.” He opened the door, but had to grit his teeth when the painful sensation came again.

Jehan started forward, but Grantaire had closed the door. He made his way out of the apartment building as quickly as his wound would allow, trying not to remember anything about the place on the way.

He shouldn’t have saved Jehan. He shouldn’t have met Jehan’s friends. He shouldn’t have been saved by some fiery rebel. He wasn’t going to tell anyone, because this never happened. _This never happened_.

***

Cosette had forbidden Grantaire to work for a few days. Eponine visited him every night to slip him some painkillers and liquor. And when blood had stopped soaking his bandages, Cosette invited him to go to the park.

“I don’t go to parks, Cosette,” Grantaire said, when his boss’ daughter rushed right in after the door opened.

Cosette’s eyes swept around Grantaire’s studio, but didn’t say anything. She looked out of place in the dark and grimy room.

“I know, that’s why I’m inviting you today,” she said with a smile. “Papa and I usually go there for a walk and give money to the poor.”

“You mean the poor bastards evicted from their homes because of some transgression against Gillenormand and his cronies?”

Cosette sighed. “It’s the least we can do to help, R.”

“Well, I’m sure you and your father will have a grand time.” He opened the door to let her out.

“But that’s just it. Father can’t come with me. He’s sick.”

“Sick?” Grantaire raised a brow and leaned against the wall. Fauchelevent was rarely sick. The man wasn’t young, but he was built like a house, with a strength of a bull. “What happened?”

Cosette waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, he’s all right. Just the flu.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t just go…”

“I can’t do that!” She huffed and grabbed Grantaire’s arm. “C’mon, it won’t kill you to actually have some time off from drinking your life away.”

Before he could protest, though, she had dragged him outside.

***

They had been going around the park, talking about the couples sitting on the marble benches to Gillenormand’s statue in the middle of the bricked dais, and handing out food to the grateful beggars on the streets when Cosette took Grantaire’s arm in a vice-like grip.

“Ow.”

“Oh, sorry, R.”

“What?” he asked, looking at her, but she was glancing over her shoulder.

Grantaire looked up just as a young man darted behind a tree. He raised a brow. “Who is that?”

Cosette shrugged, but there was a dusting of pink on her cheeks. “Just some guy.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Oh, trust me, it’s never ‘just some guy’.”

“Well,” Cosette began, “I’ve seen him before around here, but we never really talked.”

“Maybe now’s the time then.”

“What -? No, wait -”

But Grantaire was a little vindictive today because he had to shower and find clean clothes on a weekend, so he approached the boy still hiding behind the tree and coughed loudly.

The boy jumped and turned around, freckles standing out on his face, his wide eyes taking in Grantaire’s unkempt appearance.

“What are your intentions towards my lovely, young ward?”

The boy could only gape, although there was something familiar about his short brown hair, his freckles, and his lean frame.

“R, what’re you doing!” Cosette appeared beside him and locked eyes with the boy. Her eyes widened and her blush deepened, her hand gripping Grantaire’s arm tight enough to cut off blood flow.

“Ow,” Grantaire muttered, shaking off Cosette’s arm. “Well?” he asked her. “You wanted to know who he was.”

“You did?” The boy asked, his unease disappearing. He unfolded himself, like a piece of crumpled paper, to stand tall before them. He was Grantaire’s height, and on second thought, wasn't a boy at all.

Cosette’s eyes darted towards Grantaire, before settling on the young man. “Yes, I did. You’ve been following my father and I around the park for months now.”

The young man blushed, but he rolled his shoulders and stepped forward. He was dressed well, although his clothes were crumpled and a bit faded. Middle-class, Grantaire thought, maybe a university student. Was he one of Gillenormand’s supporters, though?

“I, yes, well…” The young man gulped and extended a hand. “Marius Pontmercy.”

Cosette bit her lip, a smile tugging at the edges and shook the hand. “Cosette Fauchelevent. My father owns the -”

“The nostalgia shop at the Gorbeau corner,” Marius finished. “I’ve passed it by before.”

“Maybe you mean you wanted to talk to her but was afraid her father would throw you out?” Grantaire asked, amused.

Marius blushed, but cleared his throat. He looked at Grantaire. “And - and you, Monsieur?”

“R,” Grantaire said. “That’s all you need to know.”

Marius looked confused, but nodded anyway.

“Shall we go then?” Grantaire asked, offering Cosette his elbow.

Cosette looked at it, then at Marius. She took a deep breath and said, “We’re going back to our shop. Would you like to look around?”

“What?” Grantaire scowled. “It’s a Saturday, I -”

But a pinch on his arm silenced him, and he resigned himself as chaperon of the day when Marius nodded. “Yes, I’d like that, Cosette.”

***

Cosette’s father didn’t know about Marius, and Grantaire was wondering if he should. The man was protective of his daughter and had effectively spurned suitors on her behalf before. But this time, Cosette was _fond_ of Marius. Cosette _liked_ Marius. Good lord, they looked like they might elope if Fauchelevent tried to keep them apart!

Grantaire grumbled again, and this time, Marius took note. He released Cosette’s hand, as soon as Fauchelevent re-entered the shop.

“So, Mr. Pontmercy,” Fauchelevent said, a smile on his face. No doubt it would’ve turned into a feral growl if he had witnessed the smiles and batting of lashes that happened a few minutes ago, “back again for another painting?”

Marius nodded. “Yes, Monsieur. My aunt really liked R’s painting, and I’ve decided to buy some more for my friends. I was just asking Cos - Miss Fauchelevent here if I could borrow R for a while, so he could meet my friends, show some of his sketches.”

R rolled his eyes. He had no idea if Marius’ aunt really liked his paintings or if Marius was merely piling his artwork in his room just so that he could have a perfectly innocent reason for frequenting the nostalgia shop.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Fauchelevent said, grinning. “You could get a lot of commissions.” He patted Grantaire on the shoulder before turning to his daughter. “Monsieur Lamarque and his wife are coming for the dining table set today, and I need help preparing everything.”

Cosette nodded, her face straight. When she followed her father to the center of the shop, she sneaked a wave at Marius, who waved back.

“Well, c’mon,” Grantaire said, pulling Marius’ arm and leading him outside. “Now be honest. Am I really gonna meet your friends or do you just wanna ask me everything about Cosette?”

Marius blinked. “Oh, I really want to introduce you to my friends. They appreciate artists.” Then he blushed. “And I do want to know more about Cosette.”

“Well, lead on, Pontmercy.”

***

Grantaire hadn’t been to the University of Paris in years. He’d been here with his sister before she got a scholarship at a boarding school. His heart clenched at the second memory of him and Matthew looking up at the colossal buildings, wistfully thinking about their lives ahead.

He shook his head. The past was gone. Matthew was gone. His sister was out of his reach - and he preferred it that way.

After he zoned out, he realized that Marius was already talking as he took them up the steps to one of the buildings. The University was the biggest and most lenient institute in the country. As far as Grantaire knew, Gillenormand still exerted influence on the school, but there seemed less militant presence on the school grounds compared to others, which always puzzled Grantaire.

“... and you’ll get along with Feuilly. He’s an artist, too, though he doesn’t go here. He designs fans. And then, of course, Combeffere! He’s a great guy. A bit scary, but…”

The names went over Grantaire’s head as he finally found himself facing a dark door that said Professor Lamarque.

Grantaire frowned. Was this one related to General Lamarque?

Marius didn’t know though. He merely turned the knob and stepped in. “Afternoon, friends!”

Young men around a round table looked up, frowning. But it was Grantaire who stood in shock.

On one of the chairs, Jehan returned his wide-eyed surprise. Courfeyrac, beside him, sat with a Chesire cat's grin on his face. And the only one standing, who looked like he had been in the middle of a monologue, was Enjolras, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled to his elbows.

When he saw Marius, he folded his arms. But when he saw Grantaire step in, his eyes widened, and his mouth hung open just a fraction.

“This is R,” Marius said, patting Grantaire on the arm. “He’s the artist I told you about.”

“Oh, really?” Courfeyrac said, raising his brows. His grin aimed at Grantaire was too amused for the latter’s liking.

Enjolras sighed. “We know, Pontmercy. We’ve met.”

Marius gasped. “You have?”

“He’s a friend,” Jehan piped up.

Grantaire huffed and glared at him. “Marius -”

Someone bumped into him from behind, and Grantaire stepped to the side on instinct, but a hand landed on his shoulder.

“R? What’re you doing here?”

Grantaire whirled around. “Bahorel? What’re _you_ doing here?”

“You know Bahorel, too?” One of the young men at the table stood up, as he adjusted the glasses on his nose. He had narrow eyes and a grim set to his lips. “Who else among us do you know?”

“Combeferre, relax!” A semi-bald young man slapped Combeferre’s back. “You’re so intense.”

Combeferre turned to Enjolras who nodded. “He’s all right.”

Grantaire gaped at the young men seated at the round table, and then at Bahorel who looked at him with a sheepish grin - which he never wore. Ever.

“You’ve got some explaining to do,” Grantaire muttered.

Bahorel nodded, then glanced at the young men. “This is Les Amis de l’ABC. And we’re gonna end this dictatorship.”

Oh, he was going to kill Bahorel.


	7. You'll Wear a Different Chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite inspector is here! And Grantaire is starting to feel a bit betrayed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting so late! Work had been such a drain. There was some miscommunication and I had to work double time on some projects, but here it is finally.

He felt like covering his face with a toga, like Caesar when he saw Brutus in the assembly of his assassins. But he was no Roman. Instead, he pulled back and punched Bahorel in the face.

There was a loud gasp and one “Ohh!” from the room, but Grantaire didn’t stay to look. He turned around and dashed out of the building, Marius hot on his heels.

***

Bahorel  _ knew _ . He knew what Grantaire went through, and yet he - he joined that stupid rebel group and he’d get himself killed!

His heart beat harshly against his chest, blood pounding in his ears. There was an ache blossoming on his knuckles and a headache forming behind his eyes, but he didn’t slow down. He heard Marius panting behind him as he tried to keep up.

Grantaire didn’t know how long he’d walked, the scenery blurring by as he went back to the shop. He didn’t care that his legs were burning with exhaustion. When the shop came into view, he all but ran to it.

Then he stopped.

“Ultime Fauchelevent.”

His knees locked together when he paused at the doorway. That rough voice. He peered inside, his heart in his throat. The uniform, the short, gray beard. Inspector Javert.

Grantaire felt bile rising in his throat, his hands trembling. Javert. Javert who thought the law was above human life. Javert who stood by, watching the slaughter outside the State hall in cold indifference. Javert who always looked at Grantaire with blatant disdain. Javert who was now talking to Cosette’s father in, pacing around the shop.

Grantaire stumbled sideways, flinging out a hand towards the wall. What did Javert want? Did he know about that stupid boys’ club in the University? Did he think Grantaire was involved? Was he going to torture the Fauchelevents because of  _ him _ ?

Negative thoughts tumbled after one another, and Grantaire felt his chest constricting. This couldn’t be happening. What was going on? Too much was happening too fast, with Grantaire in the eye of the impending storm but he didn’t want to be. He can’t be. He’d rather die than suffer through it all over again.

“R?” Cosette’s father looked up at him, brows drawn from underneath silver hair.

“Monsieur,” Grantaire began, his tongue working on slow motion.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent,” Javert said, his tone harsh as he looked down at Grantaire, who wanted to tried to make himself as small as possible. Javert raised a brow at Cosette’s father.

“As I said before, Inspector Javert,” Fauchelevent began, squeezing Grantaire’s shoulder, “I vouch for this young man. R has not been involved in any actions against the government, I assure you.”

“I trust you speak the truth, Monsieur,” Javert said with one last curl of his lips. He tipped his head at Fauchelevent and marched out the shop.

“Oh, R.” Cosette immediately materialized by his side, and he allowed himself to lean against her smaller frame.

“Let’s get you inside,” her father said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know Javert would come to the shop today.” He ushered Grantaire inside and pushed him into a chair. “I should’ve known, though.”

“What do you mean, Papa?” Cosette placed a warm cup into Grantaire’s hand and looked up at her father.

The older man sighed and practically dropped into the seat beside Grantaire. “News is spreading.”

Grantaire’s chest tightened. He couldn’t bring himself to drink the tea.

“Of what?” Cosette whispered, her eyes shimmering.

But it wasn’t with tears or fear, Grantaire noticed. It was bright, like a glowing ember.

Fauchelevent cleared his throat, got up, and closed the door. He flipped the CLOSED sign, before returning to his seat. He looked at Cosette, then at Grantaire. “Things are changing. And the people can feel it. Gillenormand’s scared, R.” He set his eyes on Grantaire.

“He’ll kill them,” Grantaire muttered, cold seeping into every pore of his body. “He’ll kill anyone who stands in his way.”

“He’ll keep doing that anyway,” Fauchelevent said, and Grantaire sucked in a deep breath in shock. “We might as well start fighting back.”

Cosette grabbed her father’s hand, a flurry of emotions dancing on her face.

_ No _ . Grantaire’s hands shook so badly that Cosette had to take the cup from him with her free hand. A look of pity and sadness crossed her face, but there was little fear in her eyes. “No.”

Fauchelevent dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Yes, Grantaire. It is time for freedom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jean Valjean has had so many aliases because of running from the law and stuff, but I just settled on his Fauchelevent identity and it will stay that way (till the very end I guess?). Also, you probably noticed that he doesn't seem as paranoid about Javert because I really can't have him running again to a different address to hide because that's gonna mess with the story, and I just thought that in this kind of dictatorship, Valjean would want to fight for freedom after suffering so much inequality and police brutality.


	8. Will You Join in Our Crusade?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire meets the Les Amis again.

He was on his fifth bottle when Eponine grabbed it just as he was about to take a sip.

“Damnit, Eponine -!”

“Don’t curse at me,” she said, eyes dark as she tossed the bottle into the trash can, wrinkling her nose at the sight of the empty bottles still littered around Grantaire’s studio. “The sun has yet to set and you’re already trying to kill yourself. Can you do that when I’m not around?”

The liquor sloshed around in Grantaire’s mind, and he had to blink thrice to see his friend clearly.

“When was the last time you slept?” he blurted out.

Eponine’s shoulders dropped as she rubbed her face. Eponine had lived a hard life, what with her indifferent and criminal parents. She had always said that she had been no different from them, but then she refused to help them steal from a wealthy old man. And forged a new life for her and her brother, Gavroche.

“I’ve just been… busy.”

Running herself ragged providing for her brother, no doubt. But Grantaire was in a foul mood from yesterday’s events. “Doing what?” he said with a smirk. “It’s not like your bar gets a lot of customers.”

A surge of anger erupted behind Eponine’s eyes, but she turned away before Grantaire could burn himself under her gaze.

“Yeah, well, I’m doing all I can to keep it afloat. I’m never going back to my parents.” Her words were biting, and she refused to look at him when he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Ep -”  


She shrugged off his hand and stood up. “I have to go. It’s opening time for the Corinth and I’ve got some people over.”

“But I thought you said you weren’t going to open tonight?” Grantaire tried to stand, but his knees didn’t take too kindly to the sudden mobility, and he stumbled back into his couch.

Eponine finally turned to look at him. She bit her lower lip, then said, “I’m renting out the back room for some people. Business meeting.”

“At a bar?”

“It’s not like there’ll be lots of noise to disturb them,” she said with a shrug. “I have to go. Try not to kill yourself, R.”

He wanted to say something, but his tongue couldn’t form the words, and Eponine was already out the door. He stared after her for a full three minutes, before he roused himself and looked at Gillenormand’s posters on his walls. He flipped him the bird and dragged himself to the doorway. He needed to apologize to Eponine. And he didn’t want to hole himself up in his studio without liquor anyway.

***

The moment he saw the shadow trailing him, he knew he should’ve made a run for it. He should’ve hidden. Holed himself up in a cafe somewhere. But he didn’t want Montparnasse to see him scared. What an idiot he was.

He continued to berate himself when his stalker finally grabbed his arm and pushed him against the wall. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, his side aching from the memory of several nights before. He was shaking. Montparnasse saw it and relished in it.

“Attacking innocent people in broad daylight now, Montparnasse?” Grantaire said, struggling to keep his voice even and managing to put a smirk on his face as the younger man stepped forward.

“Oh, you are far from innocent, R,” Montparnasse purred.

His face, which could’ve been painted by ancient Renaissance masters, morphed into demonic beauty. He grabbed Grantaire’s black curls and grinned. “Eponine seemed rather sad when she left your apartment. What happened, R?”

“Nothing.”

Montparnasse shook him. “Now, now, don’t lie to me. She looked ready to cry. What did you say to her?”

“Nothing.”

Montparnasse bit his lip in maniacal glee. “You really like to get hurt, don’t you?”

He punched Grantaire’s stomach and shook his head again. Grantaire folded himself at the pain, his eyes stinging with the ache spreading in his head and behind his eyes. But he didn’t say anything.

His attacker sighed, as if it was such a feat, but Montparnasse liked what he did. He got off hurting people. He clenched his free hand into a fist, but before he could strike again, Grantaire took hold of the fingers on his hair, pulled them off, and bent them backwards. Montparnasse let out a small grunt of pain, and Grantaire used the chance to ball his hand into a fist and strike at the younger man’s jaw before kicking him in the chest.

Montparnasse cursed as he stumbled.

The sweet feel of triumph curled in Grantaire’s stomach, only to be instantly replaced by the sense of dread. What had he done? Montparnasse was part of Patron-Minette, the National Guard’s pet criminal gang. And Grantaire fought back.

His tongue tasted like ash, as he watched Montparnasse get on his feet. He was grinning.

“Oh, you’re fighting back now, aren’t you?” he said, striding towards Grantaire, who was ignoring every instinct he had to run. “You’ll fight back, huh?”

He grabbed Grantaire’s collar and raised a fist.

It’s not worth it, Grantaire told himself. Fighting back was never worth it. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the punch that never came.

“Who the hell are you?”

Grantaire opened his eyes. Behind Montparnasse was Apollo in bright daylight, holding Montparnasse’s arm effortlessly under his fingers.

“A concerned citizen of France.”

Montparnasse pulled his arm away from Enjolras and rolled his shoulders. Grantaire thought he was preparing to fight, but the younger man merely dusted off unseen lint on his jacket and strode away, not even bothering to look back at his abandoned quarry.

“You okay?”

Grantaire pulled his eyes away from his savior, finally noticing two others with him - Courfeyrac and the one with the glasses. Grantaire narrowed his eyes at the latter, who gave him a cool gaze.

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac said, voice soft, “it’s rude to stare.”

Glasses guy - Combeferre - glanced at Courfeyrac with a wry grin before extending a hand towards Grantaire. “Combeferre. We met at the University.”

“Before you threw a fit and ran away,” Courfeyrac supplied enthusiastically.”

Grantaire stared at the hand offered to him, but decided to shake it when it looked like it was about to drop. “R.”

Combeferre nodded.

“What’re you doing out here?” Enjolras asked, his forehead furrowed in confusion, as he pocketed his hands in his dark red jacket.

“Walking,” Grantaire said dryly. “Is that a crime, concerned citizen of France?”

Enjolras’ jaw clenched, and Combeferre pursed his lips, but Courfeyrac didn’t even try to hide his wide grin.

Grantaire placed his trembling hands in his jeans pocket, relieved no one saw it.

“What did he want?” Enjolras asked, jerking his head at where Montparnasse used to be.

Grantaire shrugged, as the tremors slowly left his body.

“One of Gillenormand’s dogs,” Combeferre muttered. “What was he harassing you for?”

Grantaire was starting to think these people were deaf. “I don’t know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Why don’t you invite him over and ask him?”

He huffed dismissively at them and turned on his heels.

“Where are you going?” Enjolras again. He was like a dog with a bone, can’t stop gnawing.

“Why do you care?” Grantaire shot back.

Courfeyrac flung an arm across his shoulders and Combeferre appeared on his right, as Enjolras stepped in front of him, effectively blocking him from leaving.

“Jehan says you can be trusted. Courfeyrac, too.” Enjolras tipped his head towards Courfeyrac who continued to smile at Grantaire although he saw squeezing his shoulders hard enough to bruise. “They swear on their lives. And so far, nothing’s happened.”

“Not gonna last,” Grantaire said, smirking in the blonde’s direction. “It’s a mistake - what you’re doing.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes at him. “We know the people are afraid. But they’re also tired of their fear.” He placed a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, and it felt heavier than the crushing weight of inevitable death this deluded group would face. The warmth that one hand gave was even sharper than Montparnasse’s blade. “It’s time to fight back. The people will rise. You don’t need to be afraid.”

Oh, how Grantaire wanted to punch him. To shake him. To prove him wrong. To make him see that he was only leading his friends to their death. To show him that they would fail and die. Why can’t anyone else see that?

But Grantaire never said those things. He didn’t uncurl his fingers either, choosing instead to plaster a lazy grin on his face and say, “Sure. Whatever you say. Anyway,” he shrugged off Courfeyrac’s hand, “I’m on my way to the Corinth to get myself hopelessly wasted. Wanna come with?”

“The Corinth?” Combeferre asked.

“My friend runs the place, so free stuff,” Grantaire replied, although he wasn’t sure that Eponine won't throw him out tonight.

Courfeyrac guffawed, throwing his head back. “Oh, we’ll show you something better to do tonight at the Corinth, R.”

Combeferre grinned. “Indeed.”

Grantaire looked at them, confused, but the two on his right and left were all but bodily dragging him to the bar, with Enjolras following closely behind.

When they stumbled inside, Eponine looked up sharply. She didn’t seem surprised to see the others, but her brows did jump up when her eyes landed on Grantaire. Which was all sorts of strange.

“Let’s go,” Courfeyrac said, dragging Grantaire deep inside the bar.

Eponine caught his eyes, then dropped her gaze as Enjolras swept by. She continued to wipe the counter until a customer asked for a drink. Grantaire’s stomach dropped as Courfeyrac pulled him into the Corinth’s back room, Eponine’s biting words echoing in Grantaire’s mind.

He was still lost in his thoughts when Courfeyrac dropped him in a chair, leaving him to be swarmed by Jehan, Bahorel, and Marius.

Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac went to the table at the center of the room, snatching some of the papers laid on top.

Marius sat on Grantaire’s left, worrying his lower lip. “R?”

Bahorel cleared his throat, and Grantaire’s simmering anger latched onto him. “You and Eponine, huh?”

His friend sighed and dropped down on Grantaire’s right. He flicked his gaze downwards. “I’m sorry. We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to keep it from you, but…”

“But you know I don’t agree with this,” Grantaire hissed in a low voice. “I told you already you’re going to -”

“Get ourselves killed, we know,” Bahorel said, finally looking up at him. “We all know that, R. That’s a possibility we’re completely aware of. We’re not naive.”

“Oh really?”

“But we’re tired, R. Tired of this dictatorship.”

“Tired of living in fear,” Marius said.

“And who’ll lead you to success?” Grantaire said with a sneer. “Your blond Apollo?”

“Apollo?” Jehan echoed, sitting beside Bahorel. “Like the Greek god?”

Grantaire snorted, his hands itching to curl around the neck of a bottle. “No, the statue, the sculpture from several centuries ago. Beautiful but cold. Unfeeling.”

“Oh, you’ll stop saying that when you hear his speeches,” Jehan said with a smile. “Because once you do, he’ll start becoming less a statue and more the god of the sun.”

Bahorel gave him a small smile and nudged his elbow. “Just stay and listen, R. And you’ll learn why.” Grantaire raised a brow as Bahorel continued, “Why it’s the time for a revolution.”

It was then that Enjolras took to the center and faced them all - Combeferre, Courfeyrac, the semi-bald young man and his worried-looking friend, a red-haired man, Jehan, Bahorel, Marius, and Grantaire himself. He opened his mouth and the world faded to a distant hum as Grantaire listened to the man.

For the first time in a long time, Grantaire was transported back to a period of fierce passion and righteous fury - of the feeling of hope and invulnerability - of brave young men and women before they knew death, before there was despair, before everything Grantaire believed in was taken from him.

And even though he knew he was doomed, the moment he saw the fire around Enjolras, he stayed throughout the session. He stayed, and when he went home, he kept alive the small fire that Enjolras rekindled in him. In the dark and cold atmosphere of his studio, he hunched over the small flame and fed it - with old, happier memories, with misplaced hope and fevered dreams.

And when morning came the next day, it’s warmth was the first thing that greeted him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where the snowball starts to roll, my friends! Things'll heat up as Grantaire joins the meetings, unable to stay away. Secrets will start to unravel and the revolution will start in earnest.


	9. Pretending He's Beside Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire fight; a secret is almost revealed, and more R angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for disappearing on you guys for two weeks! But I had to catch up on my master's because my prof hadn't submitted my grade yet and I had to hound him :( Anyway, here's chapter 9 and a few things:
> 
> 1\. There's a reason for me placing the boys in the Corinth, doncha worry.  
> 2\. This is really gonna be quite the slow burn, you guys, because I didn't want to make it look like R fell for Enj because of his looks.  
> 3\. And there's gonna be some character deaths in this fic, I'm sorry.  
> 4\. Oh, and EASTER EGGS!!! Spot 'em, spot 'em!

He thought it would be a one-time thing. He was  _ afraid _ it would be a one-time thing. At the same time, he wished otherwise.

Grantaire thought that maybe it was just the shock of seeing someone so like Matthew, someone who spoke with so much hope.

But the fire in Enjolras’ eyes never dimmed out. In every meeting, he held that same unwavering passion. And it awed Grantaire every time. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hide from the burning light or bask himself in its fiery blaze.

And every time he came to the meetings, he found himself becoming more and more vocal.

He’d already forgiven Bahorel, of course. It’s not like he could stay mad at one of his very few true friends. Nor could he keep ignoring Eponine who always gave him free drinks.

And the Les Amis, well…

“You’re so optimistic, it’s almost funny,” he said, after three bottles of beer.

Enjolras sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Jehan gave him a look that was a cross between Please-don’t-start-a-fight and I-know-where-you’re-coming-from. 

They were an odd group tonight. It seemed that even in the summer, most of the Les Amis de l’ABC had part-time jobs and classes. Tonight, it was just Jehan, Feuilly, Enjolras, and Grantaire. The others had left early, and Grantaire thought Enjolras would leave early, too, but he had been talking to Feuilly in a low voice for already half an hour. Then, Jehan asked if he and Grantaire could join them.

And now, Grantaire was picking a fight.

“Being optimistic is funny to you?” Enjolras asked. He looked to be visibly restraining himself from rolling his eyes.

Grantaire ran a finger down his bottle, but kept his eyes on Enjolras, who waited patiently. “It’s funny to me that even after knowing Feuilly’s struggles to get to where he is, you’d think it’s so easy.”

Feuilly raised a brow, but didn’t say anything. He exchanged a look with Jehan.

“I never said it would be easy,” Enjolras said, sitting straight.

“Then why make it sound so?” Grantaire asked, leaning forward. “Since Gillenormand took the highest position in this country,  _ nothing _ has changed.” He shrugged. “Well, nothing for the better anyway. What makes  you  think _you_ can change things?”

“There’s a reason I’m not on the streets right now waving a protest sign,” Enjolras said, folding his arms across his chest. “There’s also a glaringly obvious reason I’m not a one-man activist group. I’m not stupid enough to think we can change the state of France in a snap.” He splayed his right hand on the table and looked Grantaire in the eye. “But progress doesn’t happen overnight, and that’s why we have to start somewhere.”

Feuilly nodded and touched Grantaire’s arm. “It looks nearly impossible, but I, for one, can no longer take living like this.” He gave Grantaire a sad smile. “Maybe you don’t see it, R, but change only comes when someone ushers it in.”

“And you think it’d be Les Amis?”

“If not us, then who?” Enjolras asked. “I’m not going to wait around for another group to come along.”

“Yes, because the other group was so successful,” Grantaire said, relishing the bitter taste of anguish on his lips, as he sneered.

“R,” Jehan began, but it was Enjolras who turned to Grantaire with furrowed brows.

“Don’t belittle what they had done,” Enjolras said. “You don’t know what they had sacrificed.”

Harsh laughter started to bubble up Grantaire’s throat like acid. Oh,  _ he _ didn’t know what they had sacrificed, did he?

“ _ Everyone _ knows what they sacrificed!” Grantaire gripped the neck of his bottle. “They all died, remember?”

“Not all of them.” Enjolras’ voice dropped, and he tossed a significant glance at Feuilly and Jehan. He frowned and leaned closer as if delaying a grave secret. “One of them survived. And I think we’re closer to finding him.”

Sweat broke out on Grantaire’s forehead. He tried to catch Jehan’s eyes, but the latter was looking at something over Enjolras’ head. Feuilly nodded vigorously.

“What?” Grantaire muttered weakly.

Enjolras sighed, then leaned back on his chair, a soft look on his face. “I studied in an English boarding school for most of my life, and I only knew about France from news clips and stuff on social media. Then I heard about this group led by a guy named Matthew Beaumont.”

Something broke inside Grantaire, like a bamboo stick, already thin and hollow inside. His shoulders slumped at Matthew’s name, just the ghost of a man no one had ever spoken of in two years.

“His group did what so many people were afraid to do. They protested. They brought to light Gillenormand’s dealings. They used social media to get the story out.” Enjolras turned to Grantaire, his eyes shining. “They were heroes.”

Grantaire slammed his hand on the table and stood up abruptly, toppling his chair backwards. “And then one day, they disappeared.” He leaned down at Enjolras and smirked. “Because they all died.  _ They were killed _ . You’re all just wasting your lives.”

He turned to go, but Enjolras grabbed his wrist. “Not all of them. Matthew Beaumont’s partner. He’s alive.”

“No, he’s not,” Grantaire said, casting Enjolras a look that clearly said You’re-crazy-as-fuck.

“He is,” Feuilly said. “Before they came,” he nodded at Enjolras - and no doubt he meant the rest of the group who had formerly studied outside Paris, “and while I was still living in Avignon, I learned from a very reliable source that Beaumont’s partner was spared.  _ Grantaire is still alive _ .”

Grantaire pulled his wrist from Enjolras’ death grip and stumbled back, laughing. “You guys are hilarious! I’ve been living in this city my entire life. I know Beaumont’s group -” his heart clenched “- and trust me, his partner is dead.” He trained his eyes on Jehan. “ _ Grantaire is dead _ .” Jehan flinched. Satisfied, Grantaire looked at Enjolras. “Remember that.”

He walked clumsily out the room. Even though no one went after him, he quickened his pace.

“Grantaire,” Eponine began, when he staggered against the counter, but he merely gave her a quick salute before tumbling outside the Corinth just as a customer came in.

They bumped into Grantaire, who stumbled back.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, but someone held onto his arm.

“Isn’t it a bit too early for you to leave?”

Grantaire stilled at the familiar and disgustingly oily voice. Montparnasse’s face appeared before his.

“Sick,” Grantaire said, eyes darting towards Eponine, whose own eyes widened when she saw who had come in.

Montparnasse touched Grantaire’s forehead. The latter tilted his head away, but Montparnasse grabbed his cheeks and squeezed. “You’re right, you don’t look so well, R.”

“Montparnasse.” Eponine appeared beside them, grabbing the other man’s arm. “Let him go. Please.”

“I just want to make sure he’s all right.” Montparnasse loosened his hold, but didn’t let go.

Grantaire’s heart thudded in his chest. Montparnasse was here. Enjolras, Feuilly, and Jehan were still at the back room. Eponine would never betray them, but he couldn’t help feeling actually sick.

“I was actually just about to take him home.”

Grantaire’s stomach plummeted at the new voice. Enjolras stood just beside Eponine, a cool look on his face.

Montparnasse turned to him, just as Jehan and Feuilly arrived and positioned themselves behind Enjolras.

“Oh, it’s you,” Montparnasse said, a grin growing on his face. He released Grantaire’s face and pushed him back. “I didn’t know you were a regular here. You didn’t tell me, Eponine.”

Eponine placed an arm around Grantaire. “College students. You know how it is.”

“Do I?” Montparnasse muttered. “How’d you become friends with R anyway?”

Enjolras looked about ready to say something nasty, basing on the way the edge of his lips was starting to curl, when Eponine said, “They’re friends of Marius Pontmercy, who commissioned R for some paintings.”

Montparnasse’s grin faded. “Pontmercy. Right.” He turned to Eponine. “I’ll be getting my regular drink now, Eponine. Good night, R.”

He tilted his head at Grantaire, then Enjolras, and went to the counter. Eponine turned to Enjolras. “You probably didn’t meant it, and I’m so sorry, I don’t want to impose, but R really needs someone to walk him home -”

“No, I don’t -”

“Who said I didn’t meant it?” Enjolras asked, looking offended.

“Oh,” Grantaire and Eponine said in unison.

Feuilly clapped Enjolras on the shoulder. “Well, then, see you next week. Jehan?”

Jehan nodded, then followed Feuilly outside, but not before throwing Grantaire an apologetic look.

“Whatever,” Grantaire muttered, getting outside.

Enjolras walked quietly beside him. Grantaire waited for something, for questions, for an argument, or for even another spiel about fighting for freedom. Maybe another one of Enjolras’ reports on how ancient Greeks viewed democracy.

But there was none. And ten minutes into their walk, when the only thing that made noise was their footsteps, Grantaire finally said, “You don’t have to go with me, you know.”

“I don’t mind. I’m going this way anyway.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Sure you are.”

Enjolras matched his pace and turned to him. “Why do you always doubt me?”

They weren’t talking about walking Grantaire home, were they?

“I’m not drunk enough for this, Enjolras.”

“No, you’re not sober enough, you mean.” Enjolras sighed. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? That I only know theories and dead historical figures. That I don’t know real life.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Grantaire said as they passed by an old couple shuffling towards an apartment complex. “No one can deny your brilliance, Enjolras.”

“Yet you think that everything I say is false -”

“Not everything -”

“You think I don’t take myself seriously? That when I say I will fight for my country, I mean it? That when I say I will die for France -”

“That’s the problem, Matthew!”

Grantaire’s heart stopped, and it seemed Enjolras’ did, too, because the latter didn’t move, until -

“What?” Enjolras asked.

A hundred thousand things ran around Grantaire’s head, but none as dominantly painful as the memory of Matthew’s passion now resurrected in Enjolras’ person.

“They tried to recruit me,” he blurted out.

“What?”

“Beaumont and - and his crew.” The lie stabbed at his heart. “But I knew - I knew they were just gonna get themselves killed.” He chuckled, a disgusting sound that grated his ears. “And I was right. They died. And they didn’t even achieve anything.”

Enjolras’ jaw clenched, his eyes alight with anger. “They gave you a chance to fight with them, and you turned it down?”

A laugh escaped Grantaire, and it tumbled down like an avalanche. He laughed and doubled over with the force of it. He laughed and laughed, until he was sure Enjolras would punch him in the face.

“Wow, seriously? You’re disappointed I didn’t die with them?” Grantaire guffawed, but straightened his back to stare at Enjolras. “Oh, you would’ve preferred for someone like me to die, and for someone like Matthew Beaumont to live, right?  _ Right _ ?”

_ Oh, Enjolras, if you only knew how many times I wished I’d died with them. How many times I wished Matthew had lived instead of me. _

Enjolras stepped back, clenched fists at his side. He made no move towards Grantaire, but he didn’t look sorry for whatever his words had implied.

“You two would’ve gotten along so well,” Grantaire muttered, suddenly realizing that hot tears were pricking at his eyes.

“Were you always like this?” Enjolras asked, voice cold. “Cynical? Incapable of believing? That even when someone tried to give you hope, you spat on it?”

Another hollow laugh was threatening to rip out of Grantaire’s chest, but he held it in. What was one more pain, after all?

“You think this is in my nature?” Grantaire snorted. “I take great care not to believe in anything, Enjolras.”

Enjolras took a deep breath, but let out only one small word in a low voice, “Why?”

If only Grantaire could make him see. If only Grantaire could explain. But instead, he raised his arms and said to the sky and Enjolras, “Gentleman of the human race, I say to hell with the lot of you. Morpheus calls my name, and therefore, I must bid you adieu, bright Apollo!” He bowed to Enjolras. “Go home to your solar skies. Darkness does not suit you.”

He turned around and walked the rest of the way, never once looking back over his shoulder.

When he got to his studio, Grantaire rummaged around his cabinets and pulled out a small brown wooden box. He pulled out a playing cards cardboard box and started taking out the cards.

He flipped the King of Hearts. At the back was Matt’s picture. Grantaire bit his lip as he pulled the rest of the cards that had pictures of his old friends. And lastly, he fished out a joker card and looked at his own picture. Because he was a wild card. The trump card.

Grantaire gathered the cards close to his chest and wept.


	10. Is Your Life Just One More Lie?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire being insufferable during meetings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't abandoned this fic, but I was so busy the past few months! My exams are basically done, so I can breathe a little, and I'll try to post constantly, although I think the story might be longer than I originally anticipated. Anyway, here it goes! :)

Grantaire had half a mind not to go to the Saturday meeting. It's not like he was able to contribute anything useful. Not even if he wanted to. Plus, the night always ended with a fight with Enjolras and a pitying look from Jehan, both of which he could no longer stomach.

But Marius was bribing him with more commissions. Who knew that boy could be so sly and cunning? Of course, Grantaire could always say no to him, but then Marius never commissioned a painting of Gillenormand's face. So far, Grantaire has painted a bridge, park, library, and river. They were simple and calming. And he actually felt slightly bit happy about his art, and not bitter for once.

And so he went to the meeting at the backroom of Eponine's bar.

He was actually early, which was a feat in itself. Enjolras was there, engaged in a hushed conversation with Courfeyrac and Combeferre - the triumvirate - and the moment the "Chief", as Courfeyrac had sometimes called Enjolras, locked eyes with Grantaire, the latter felt his heartbeat pause. The former nodded, a simple and platonic acknowledgment of Grantaire's existence, which was really more than he thought he deserved.

Grantaire saluted him and snorted when the blond frowned. He slipped into the chair nearest the back and placed his elbows on the table. He had a special wine today, a whole bottle of it, and he was going to enjoy it while he tried not to think of Bahorel or Marius - or Enjolras - shot dead outside the State hall.

"Absinthe, eh?"

Grantaire was about to take his first gulp, when a bald, young man approached him. He put the bottle down gently, trying to recall the man's name.

"Bossuet," he said, extending a hand.

"R," Grantaire said, taking it. Bossuet sat beside him, but then scrunched up his face and hissed.

"What?"

"Oh, it's not you. I sprained my ankle this morning," Bossuet said, waving a hand, and grinning. "So, where'd you get that? I wanted to try one, but Jolllly threw a fit."

"Eponine," Grantaire murmured. "But it's the only one. She gets a bottle a month. For me."

Bossuet pouted. "Aw. Just as well, I guess. I might die of alcohol poisoning." He chuckled.

Grantaire raised a brow. "Not if you don't want to. And not if you're careful."

This time, Bossuet guffawed; his laugh was so loud that it drew the triumvirate's eyes. But Bossuet was oblivious. He slapped Grantaire on the back. "I'm never careful, R! That's why I have Joly!"

"No, you have me because you have nowhere else to stay." A thin young man appeared beside Bossuet, and took the next seat. He sighed. He had sharp cheekbones, and bright eyes. He turned to Grantaire, and then his eyes narrowed at the bottle in Grantaire's hand. "What's that?"

"Absinthe," Bossuet and Grantaire said at the same time.

Joly gasped and actually placed a hand over his heart. "That's dreadfully alcoholic!"

Grantaire snorted. "So am I." Then he winked at Joly. "And that's really the point." He took a swig loudly and messily, and then made a point to wipe his wet chin with his sleeves. He caught Enjolras frowning at him. Grantaire winked at the blond. Enjolras looked like he was about to deliver a sonic speech on decency, but then decided against it and went back to his conversation with his lieutenants.

"Is this your first bottle?" Joly pressed, leaning across the table to get a good look at Grantaire's face. "You look tired, and your eyes are a bit red. You look awful, R."

"Nah, that's just my regular face."

Bossuet laughed again, and slapped the table this time.

Joly blushed. "No, I - sorry, I didn't mean to offend. I'm just worried..."

He looked so guilty that Grantaire sighed. According to Jehan, this was the man who had patched him up after Montparnasse had stabbed him. "It's fine," Grantaire said, forcing a grin on his face. "It's just my first bottle." _Of absinthe_. "And I only drink this once a month." _I drink beer and whiskey and vodka the rest of the time._ "Really, I'm fine, Joly." _No, no, I'm not._

But Joly sighed in relief, and he smiled. "Oh, all right." Then he turned to Bossuet. "You're still not allowed to drink it, though. Or I will send your father post. All the way to Meaux!"

Bossuet shook his head, then lowered his voice, although he made no effort to hide his plan to Joly. "Just a sip. Maybe when Joly's not looking."

Joly rolled his eyes, and Grantaire couldn't help chuckling. They were the first ones he had talked to who didn't ask him about the rebellion, Gillenormand, or about Matthew Beaumont's group.

"So you're from Meaux?" Grantaire asked Bossuet.

"Oh, yes. My name's actually Lesgle, but -"

"Oh, really?" Grantaire said, a grin splitting his face. "L'Aigle de Meaux, are you then? Eagle of the Meaux!"

This time, it was Joly who laughed. And his voice was even louder than Bossuet. In fact, he had disturbed the room, that Enjolras was already on his feet and glaring daggers at Grantaire (It wasn't his fault - no, wait, it was). Bahorel, Marius, and the rest, who were just about to get in, wore worried looks, feet hovering over the ground, as if afraid they would be stepping on landmines if they proceeded.

Bossuet nudged Joly, who clenched his lips shut, but still couldn't stop his shoulders from shaking.

Enjolras cleared his throat. He nodded at the others to get in, and he walked to the center of the room. "Good evening, everyone..."

He started talking about new information from their sources. No one among the Les Amis members ever named their "sources". Grantaire wasn't sure if that was for extra caution - walls have ears, and all that - or because no one fully trusted him yet. He was, nevertheless, grateful for it. If he was caught and tortured, he wouldn't be able to give anything away. After all, the only thing he really focused on during the meetings was the familiar burning rage and hope in Enjolras' eyes. How would the National Guard react to Grantaire reciting an ode to Enjolras' eyes?

He chuckled at his own joke, but realize only too late that it was loud, and had attracted Enjolras' attention at the wrong moment.

"Is there something funny, R?" Enjolras said, raising his voice and piercing him with a cold look.

Just like every time Grantaire annoyed Enjolras, Marius and Jehan begged him with their eyes not to start a fight. But it wasn't like Grantaire wanted to be torn into pieces by an angry Apollo.

"Nothing, dear leader."

But instead of moving on, Enjolras merely folded his arms and continued to look at him. "No, you have something to say. I'd like to hear it. We'd all like to hear it."

"Oh, really? You know for sure that the rest of them would like to hear from me?" Grantaire said, leaning back against his chair. He could just be as stubborn as Enjolras if he wanted to. "Or have you put it to a vote? After all, democracy isn't one person deciding for others, is it? That would be tyranny." He grinned at the murderous look on Enjolras' face. "How about let's just put it to a vote then, huh? Would you all like to know that I was thinking about this stupid joke involving a raven and a -?"  
  


"Enjolras," Combeferre said suddenly, drawing everyone's attention, "I think we all know that R has a right to his private jokes, and that it really doesn't bother us much, else we would have taken it up with him days ago. He just probably think it's stupid that Gillenormand is banning the Classics from the university libraries."

Grantaire blinked. He didn't even know what the current social topic was.

"Oh, really?" Enjolras said flatly, looking at his four-eyed friend.

"Yes," Combeferre said, tilting his head a little bit to the left. "Now, Marius has an important update regarding the books, and I think we should give him the floor."

Everyone watched as Enjolras flicked Grantaire one last look before nodding to Marius, who stood up shakily, gripping pieces of paper in his hands. Bossuet placed a light hand on Grantaire's arm and gave him a small smile.

Gillenormand was going to screen the books delivered to the University of Paris from Oxford, and there were rumors that schools would no longer be receiving donated books (after a revolutionary manifesto was seen stuck to the pages of a book donated by Harvard), but will be using only the materials written by authorities recognized and trusted by Gillenormand. That included history and the sciences. And literary and cultural studies courses were in danger of being outright removed from the curricula in the next academic year.

"Our sources were able to save some books," Marius said, "but with the danger of being found and the threat of constantly moving them, some books had to be left behind or burned."

"But only the ones with ready copies online, right?" Enjolras asked. "On the network provided by -" he glanced at Grantaire, then turned back to Marius. "On the secured network?"

Grantaire took another drink from his bottle. So Enjolras really didn't trust him after all. His head was getting groggy now, but he had to admit that the Les Amis was more prepared than he expected. The internet was heavily monitored and restricted, and phones were always tapped. Having some digital device brought more trouble than security, but if the group had help...

A shiver ran up his spine, and the drink loosened his tongue.

"How sure are you that this 'secured network' is really, well, secured?" he asked aloud. "For all you know your sources are working for Gillenormand. _For all you know, they're just waiting for the right time to capture you and make an example out of you_."

Grantaire prepared himself for a scathing remark, for a verbal lashing from Enjolras, but instead, the latter turned to him with sadness in his eyes.

"You mean like Matthew's group?"

Enjolras might as well have poured boiling oil over Grantaire's head. That was the kind of torture his chest was feeling at the moment. To be reminded about his friends. To hear Matthew's name spoken again, more times in the few months since Grantaire had met Enjolras than two years after his death. To hear Enjolras say it so warmly and softly, as if they were friends. As if they knew each other. Grantaire wanted to hurl his absinthe.

When he didn't reply, Enjolras continued, "Our sources can be trusted. You have my word."

"You're saying you're sure they won't betray you?"

Enjolras nodded. "I promise it. I swear it on my life."

Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Grantaire could compose a poem right now using all the curses he knew in different languages, and it wouldn't still be enough to describe the churning of his stomach, the cold dread on his chest, and the goosebumps on his arms and on his nape. The last person who made him a promise... Fear immobilized him, and he said no more as the conversation about the books renewed.

Grantaire leaned back on his chair, taking small shallow breaths. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, then glanced at the door, wondering if it would be too obvious if he left right now.

Instead, he found Eponine standing at the doorway, her eyes focused unblinkingly at the center of the room. Grantaire frowned. There was something different about the look on her face. Something that wasn't just paying attention in class. It was... like seeing a beautiful painting in a gallery and going back every week just to see it again.

Grantaire followed her gaze - to Marius, who was frantically expressing his reports, sometimes with passion (but it lacked Enjolras' ferocity), and sometimes with a smile. Grantaire looked back at his friend's face. Eponine wasn't just enamored. She was in love.

He groaned and dropped his head in his hands. So that was how she got involved in this mess.

"Are you all right, R?"

Grantaire looked up to see Joly frowning at him. "Fine, Joly. I'm fine."

Joly nodded. "Well, the meeting's over now, we best get home."

"Aw, but Jolllly," Bossuet said, rubbing his bald head, "can't we get a drink from the bar?" He turned to Grantaire. "What's better than absinthe, R?" Joly glowered, and Bossuet hastily added, "One that's not so strong. Or bad for the health."

Grantaire massaged his temples, but laughed. "I dunno. I'm not a fan of healthy living." Joly drew in a large breath. "But let's ask Eponine what she can find, eh?"

They nodded, and proceeded outside the room. The others milled about, and Grantaire saw Bahorel looking at him. The two of them hadn't been able to talk properly since Grantaire discovered what Bahorel had been hiding. Frankly, he didn't know how to tell his friend that he'd already forgiven him, but that he was still angry, and that he still believed things would end badly for Les Amis.

Locking eyes with Grantaire, Bahorel walked towards him, and Grantaire was about to meet him halfway when someone placed a hand on his right shoulder. It was Combeferre.

"Oh, hey, uh, Com -"

"That was a bit too close for comfort, huh? Enjolras can be very stubborn sometimes. I'm sorry he scared you."

Grantaire shook his head. "Well, if he wasn't stubborn, none of us would be here, right? It was nothing."

Combeferre nodded and smiled, showing perfect teeth, stark white against his dark skin. "That's good to know. I really hope we aren't driving you away. Can we expect you at the next meeting?"

Grantaire nodded, although the truth was he didn't know. But Combeferre was being diplomatic and nice. "Sure. Just keep the drinks coming."

The man squeezed Grantaire's shoulder lightly. "We'll be expecting you then. Good night, Grantaire."

"You, too," Grantaire said, clapping the man on the back. Bahorel took Combeferre's place, and gave him a small smile.

Bahorel was big, and full of muscle. Playing cute didn't suit him. It was like a bear trying to play house with a rabbit. It just didn't compute.

Bahorel opened his mouth, but Grantaire cut in with, "You're forgiven. As long as you buy me a beer tonight. I'm all out." He raised his empty bottle.

"You're on," Bahorel exclaimed, draping an arm around Grantaire's shoulders.

Grantaire threw a look around and told himself he was not looking for Enjolras, who was no longer in the room anyway. They went out of the back room and found Joly and Bossuet waiting for them. It was the first time in a long time that Grantaire was able to enjoy himself with more than one friend, talking about things that didn't make him sad, and making fun of each other like tonight might not be their last before they get executed by the National Guard.

And when Grantaire was finally home, he turned their conversations in his head so that he would at least be able to dream about something nice tonight. He was already about to drift off, when his mind settled on Combeferre, who was (somewhat) apologizing on behalf of Enjolras.

Then Grantaire sat up with a jolt. Because he had just remembered. _He remembered what Combeferre called him_. 

 

 

 


	11. Bring Him Home

The next day was pure agony for Grantaire. The next Les Amis meeting was not for a few more days, but that made the suspense near unbearable. Combeferre had called him "Grantaire." Combeferre knew who he was. His heart was beating so loud and so fast that he had a hard time swallowing. His throat was so dry. Who could have told him? Jehan? Even after he promised not to tell anyone. Grantaire ripped the sketch, crumpled it, and threw it over his head to the back of his couch. There was probably a mountain of failed sketches there.

Grantaire tried again. He took deep breaths and started a horizontal black line. He blinked. What was he making again? Ugh. He threw the sketchpad across the room, where it hit the wall, and landed near the door. Grantaire stared at it blankly. What was the point now? They probably all know. Even Enjolras. And the thought of the blond-haired revolutionary knowing Grantaire's identity... it made his stomach turn. He was gonna be sick.

"R! R! Please, open up!"

Grantaire's head shot up. There was a pounding on his door and it was escalating. It was still six in the morning on a Sunday. Who would be looking for him this early on a weekend?

“R!”

Grantaire jumped up, the cogs in his brain turning, as if awakened for the first time in a century. That was Eponine.

“R… Grantaire…”

There was something in Eponine’s voice – something that worried Grantaire. He hurried to open the door. As soon as he turned the knob, Eponine flung it open, staring at him with wide eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

But instead of a barrage of tears or nonsense words Grantaire was expecting, Eponine grabbed his arms, her eyes growing wider. “They have him.”

Goose bumps prickled his arms. His mind was still blank, but those three words brought him to a time years ago. Those three words… They never bode well for anyone. He was afraid to ask, but knew that he had to.

“Who?”

Eponine took a deep breath and released it, along with a name and a well of tears. “Gavroche. They have him, R. The National Guard has my brother.”

***

“How did this happen?” Grantaire asked, after he had jumped for the door as soon as Eponine said “National Guard.”

Eponine wrung her hands, pacing up and down. She took deep breaths, wiping sweat from her forehead, and running a hand through her hair from time to time. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her shirt and pants were the same she wore yesterday. At the meeting. Another surge of fear gripped Grantaire.

“Eponine,” he began, “was Gavroche -? Did he have anything to do with Les Amis?”

She let out a low, strangled cry. “He was always talking about how he wanted to help m – how – how he wanted to do something good. How he wanted to – oh, Grantaire, they’re going to kill him.”

She dropped on the couch and covered her face with her hands. “When I went home last night, Montparnasse was waiting for me. He said he did the best he could – he said he’d already warned me. I told him I was willing to do anything…”

 _No_ …

“But he said there was nothing he could do.”

He hated Montparnasse. He was relieved that Eponine wasn’t force to do something unsavory to save Gavroche, but at the same time… He shook his head. There had to be something they could do. They have to save Gavroche. They have to.

Grantaire placed a hand on Eponine’s shoulder and he dropped next to her. “Do you have any idea where they took him?”

She nodded. “Montparnasse said he’s at the State hall.” Eponine took hold of her hair and she keened, bending over as she cried. “At the State hall!” Then she turned and grabbed Grantaire’s collar. “The State hall, R!”

His stomach was cold. His back was sweating. And his head was dizzy with the memories of pain and death. Even his arms and feet were starting to feel heavy and numb. “No,” he said, but his tongue weighed a ton. It was like doing a memorized speech for the 10th time – the words were meaningless and hollow, but he forced himself to talk for his friend’s sake. “No. Don’t give up.” Eponine looked as hopeless as he felt. Grantaire licked his lips and stood up. “We’ll save him. We’ll do everything we can, I swear.”

He turned and pulled his door open.

“Where are you going?” Eponine asked. She stood up and went after him. “R?”

“Les Amis,” Grantaire said. “They got him into this mess. They’re gonna help get him out.”

Eponine’s eyes widened, but she made no move to stop him. She bit her lips, nodded, then said, “All right. Let’s go.”

“No, you need to stay here.”

“Like hell I am,” she said, practically growling, and nearly baring her teeth.

“It’s too dangerous.”

“He’s my brother – do you think I care if it’s dangerous?” She stepped closer to him and pitched her voice low. “If it was me or Bahorel – or Matthew –“

“Eponine,” he warned.

“If it were _your sister_ ,” she hissed, eyes misting with tears, “tell me you won’t do anything. Tell me you’ll just sit here and wait while other people try to save her. _Tell me_.”

He stared into her eyes, but her unblinking ones were hard and dark, and Grantaire knew there was no way she would stay behind. Because he wouldn’t have either. He broke eye contact, and took a deep breath. “All right. Follow me.”


	12. The Time Is Near

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> R learns another secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to post this yesterday to get 2 chapters in, but after I posted Ch11, the site went crazy and just kept reloading. So here's the next chapter guys, and sorry for the wait!

It felt like a long time ago when he had been stabbed by Montparnasse and had woken up at a stranger’s house – a stranger who happened to be the leader of a ragtag volunteer army (which was more like a club really).

Grantaire thought he had forgotten the way, but really, how could he, when he thought about it despite not wanting to? How could he forget waking up to a living, breathing piece of art? To a kind of beauty Grantaire hadn’t seen in a very long time?

But this time, he wasn’t running away. This time, Grantaire was pounding on the door so hard, the hinges were protesting. By the second set of third knocks, the door was wrenched open by a furious blond.

“Don’t you understand courtesy and –“ Enjolras paused. He looked at Grantaire and Eponine, then hissed. “Get inside.”

Grantaire and Eponine rushed in.

“What’re you two doing here?” Enjolras asked.

“Not even gonna offer us a seat? Don’t you understand courtesy and -?”

Enjolras let out a sigh and held a hand. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?”

Grantaire sneered, and stepped into Enjolras’ face. “We have a problem. A huge one, so if you could, why don’t you ask your friends to come over so they can help us.”

Instead of rushing to do something, though, Enjolras merely folded his arms and raised a brow. He turned to Eponine. “What’s this about? And what on earth happened to you?”

“They have my brother,” Eponine said. “The National Guard has Gavroche.”

Enjolras gasped, but not for the reason Grantaire thought. The blond glanced at Grantaire. “You swore never to tell anyone about your brother’s connections to us.”

Eponine glanced at Grantaire, her jaw hanging open. Then she rounded on Enjolras. “My brother is with the National Guard – are you deaf? And I trust R with my life.”

But instead of getting motivated to do something, Enjolras narrowed his eyes at Grantaire before returning to Eponine. “How did this happen?”

Eponine wiped her forehead with her sleeve, but Grantaire was losing his patience.

“Montparnasse said he was caught on suspicion of smuggling weapons into Paris from American rebel groups,” Eponine said, words tumbling so close. Grantaire would never have understood had his senses not been shot to the extreme.

“Weapons?” Grantaire echoed, looking from Eponine to Enjolras. “American rebel groups? What’re you planning?”

“Why did he get caught?” Enjolras asked, approaching Eponine. “The only ones who know about the meeting are…” He glanced at Grantaire for a fraction of a second before saying, “… some of the Les Amis… and our sources.”

“I don’t know!” Eponine shrieked. She grabbed Enjolras’ arm and squeezed. “Enjolras, please. They caught him last night. It’s been more than five hours. Who knows what they’re doing to him?”

“They won’t kill him,” Enjolras said, crossing the room and peeking through the curtains of his windows. “They need him.”

“I don’t fucking care!” This time, Eponine went for a full-throttle attack, and grabbed Enjolras’ collar. She pulled at him, and they were in danger of tumbling to the ground. “They’re hurting my brother. My baby brother – Enjolras!”

“We’ll get him out,” Enjolras said, stilling Eponine’s efforts. His eyes softened, and he looked up at Grantaire. “I’m not as heartless as you think I am. But we can’t go there without a plan. Else, everything we worked so hard for will go to waste.”

“Are you planning a war?” Grantaire asked, his mind trying to paint Enjolras with a gun. “My gawd, are you insane? You’ll all die!” He looked at Eponine, eyes wide. “Did you know?”

“Now’s not the time, R,” Eponine said, gritting her teeth.

But Grantaire couldn’t let it go. This… this was going to be worse than two years ago. This was going to cost a hundred more lives. He grabbed Enjolras’ hand. “Tell me you’re not actually stupid enough to think you can take them on with a handful of weapons and some rebels who don’t know a single thing about France!”

Enjolras shook off his hand and fixed him with a heated look. “An unjust law is no law at all. Which means I have a right, even a duty to resist.” Enjolras bridged the distance between him and Grantaire and pulled himself up to his full height. “With violence or civil disobedience.”

There was something wrong with the heat pooling below his stomach, but watching Enjolras with the fervor in his eyes was always new to Grantaire – like he could never get enough. So he stood there, lips slightly parted in awe (and maybe a little bit in fear).

Grantaire slowly shook his head. “No… Enjolras…”

The blond sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Remember this – when injustice becomes law, resistance becomes a duty.”

Grantaire opened his mouth, but there was a series of three short raps on the door, followed by Jehan’s voice. “Enjolras, open up!”

Enjolras opened the door, and stepped aside to let in Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre, who gave him a grim, quick nod, which wrapped like a barb wire around Grantaire’s stomach.

“Gavroche –“ Jehan began, then saw Eponine and Grantaire. He stopped, then looked at Enjolras.

“I know,” Enjolras said. He turned to Courfeyrac. “We’ll talk in full later. For now, I need you to get Pontmercy.”

Courfeyrac narrowed his eyes at Grantaire, then raised a brow at Enjolras. “Are you sure?”

Enjolras nodded. “Yes.”

Without another word, Courfeyrac turned heel and ran. Combeferre closed the door after him, then jerked his head towards Grantaire. “So?” he asked Enjolras, who sighed and gave Grantaire one long look.

“You trust him with your life, you say?” Enjolras asked, turning to Eponine.

Eponine nodded vigorously, biting her lip.

“As do I,” Jehan said.

Enjolras stepped beside Combeferre so he could stare at Grantaire. The latter felt chills run down his spine at Enjolras’ unblinking stare.

“Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Enjolras began, “if we can trust you to keep your head. Seeing as you already know too much, it would be a fool to let you go. For the sake of the revolution, for the sake of France, you have no choice but to be part of Les Amis.”

“I thought I already was an involuntary member,” Grantaire muttered, and folded his own arms, mirroring Enjolras’ cold stare.

“We shall see,” Combeferre said, letting out a short grin that sent Grantaire’s heart thumping wildly – and not even for romantic reasons. “If he doesn’t kill Pontmercy.”

“What?” Eponine asked, her brows furrowed.

Grantaire frowned. So Eponine didn’t know either. He turned to Jehan, who pursed his lips and looked down. They heard a rush of footsteps outside the door, and Courfeyrac’s voice going, “Enj!”

Combeferre opened the door. Courfeyrac and Marius stepped in, the latter looking roughed out, his clothes rumpled, and his hair disheveled.

“Enjolras, I heard from Courfeyrac – Eponine, oh Eponine, I’m so sorry.” Marius attempted to get to her, but Enjolras put a hand on his shoulder, effectively stopping him.

“We need you to do something for us. To save Gavroche.”

“Of course. Anything.” Then he cast Grantaire a look. “Uh…”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. He was getting tired of this – Les Amis tiptoeing around him. “Your beloved leader has already accepted me into the group. Apparently, I have no choice, and I have to do everything he says.”

“I didn’t say that,” Enjolras snapped, “but we don’t have time to argue. For the plan to work, though, you’ll need to know a vital piece of information.”

Grantaire raised a brow.

“I just want you to know that Marius is his own man. He’s different, and he’s dedicated to the cause, and to helping free our country,” Enjolras went on. “Whatever your feelings are as a slighted citizen should be set aside for the cause.” He squeezed Marius’s shoulder. “I just need you to prepare yourself, R –“

“Oh, get on with it, Enjolras!”

Enjolras pursed his lips, then nodded, as if steeling himself. “I’m just telling you because regular people often either shy away or get angry at Marius when they learn.”

“When they learn what?” Grantaire snapped.

Enjolras threw him a challenging look. “When they learn that Marius – is Gillenormand’s grandson.”

At first, nothing registered. Grantaire’s mind was working on disjointing the sentence, taking it apart to see how it worked – Gillenormand, grandson, Marius. No… No, it can’t be.

“I would like to remind you, R, that if you feel some derision towards Gillenormand, Marius is –“

But Enjolras never got to finish his sentence because Grantaire’s heart was pounding. His ears were ringing. And his blood was seeking blood. His mind and body drove him to doing one thing only – the need to satisfy his revenge.

He didn’t even remember crossing the room to grab at Marius, but he did feel, with satisfaction and relish, the warm blood on his fists when he punched Marius in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes Enjolras used:
> 
> "'An unjust law is no law at all.' Which means I have a right, even a duty to resist. With violence or civil disobedience." - from the film The Great Debaters (love, love that film).
> 
> "When injustice becomes law, resistance becomes duty." - Thomas Jefferson (I saw a pic of this quote on Tumblr once, saying Enj would say this, but I can't remember who posted that - so this is for you whoever you are!)
> 
> ... oh and "ragtag volunteer army" is from "Guns and Ships" because... who're your favorite fighting Frenchmen?! See what I did there? LOL, I'm crazy. Need more sleep.


End file.
